LIBRARY  OF  THE  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 

PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


Purchased  by  the  Hamill  Missionary  Fund. 


Division...^IT..^  ^ 


Section. 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/streannsindesertpOOnnorr 


STREAMS 
N    THE  DESERT 


A  PICTURE  OF  LIFE  IN  LIVINGSTONIA 


^  BY 

J.  H.  MORRISON,  M.A. 

AUTHOR  OF  "ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PIONEERS" 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

{Printed  in  Great  Britain.] 


ll 


PREFACE. 


The  following  chapters  are  a  simple  narrative  of  a 
long  week-end  in  Central  Africa,  spent  in  continuous 
travelling  among  the  various  tribes  of  Nyasaland  and 
North -Eastern  Rhodesia.  The  story  of  this  long 
ulendoy  often  told  at  missionary  meetings,  has  more 
recently  been  retold  during  many  happy  months  of 
lecturing  to  the  troops  in  France.  The  reception 
accorded  to  these  lectures  would  seem  to  justify  the 
hope  that  the  narrative  may  prove  of  interest  to  wider 
than  merely  missionary  circles.  Further,  in  a  time  of 
sudden  and  kaleidoscopic  change,  when  the  remotest 
regions  are  in  process  of  transformation,  it  may  be 
useful  to  endeavour  to  fix  a  picture,  though  it  be  but 
a  snapshot,  of  Central  Africa  on  the  eve  of  the  Great 
War. 

I  have  tried  to  describe  accurately  things  as  I  saw 
them.  No  apology  is  offered  for  the  predominance  of 
incident,  and  of  what  may  be  called  the  fun  of  the 
road.  The  discussion  of  African  problems  presents 
many  tempting  themes,  but  it  has  seemed  best  to  set 
down  in  detail  such  facts  as  came  under  one's  per- 
sonal observation  and  leave  them  to  make  their  own 
imprint.  The  details,  if  they  are  not  the  soul  of  the 
picture,  at  least  give  it  clearness  and  light  and  shade. 

Contact  with  the  natives  in  their  villages  and 
along  their  forest  paths  brought  a  supreme  and 


vi 


PREFACE 


astonishing  revelation  of  the  humanness  and  lovable- 
ness  of  the  African.  Some  impression  of  this  it  has 
been  my  main  endeavour  to  convey  to  the  reader. 

I  gratefully  acknowledge  my  deep  obligation  to 
the  Hon.  Dr.  Laws  and  others,  his  colleagues,  whose 
long  and  intimate  knowledge  of  things  African,  freely 
placed  at  my  disposal,  enabled  me  to  see  and  under- 
stand much  that  would  otherwise  have  passed  un- 
observed or  remained  a  sealed  book.  Especially  to 
Dr.  Chisholm  of  Mwenzo,  my  companion  on  many  a 
tangled  path  and  by  many  a  camp-fire  in  the  remotest 
wilds,  I  am  indebted  for  such  insight  as  I  gained 
into  the  inwardness  of  African  village  life.  For  a 
stranger  to  travel  in  these  regions,  unfamiliar  with  the 
language  of  the  people,  unacquainted  with  their  in- 
dividual names  and  histories,  ignorant  of  what  is 
passing  round  him — the  humour  of  the  carriers,  the 
gossip  of  the  villagers,  the  meaning  of  tribal  cus- 
toms— is  to  travel  blind.  As  well  might  one  imagine 
that  the  life  of  London  could  be  adequately  seen  from 
the  twopenny  tube.  If  I  was  in  any  measure  saved 
from  this  misfortune  it  is  mainly  due  to  the  knowledge 
and  courtesy  of  my  friend  the  Doctor. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

The  Chind6  Mouth  .... 

I 

II. 

On  the  River  

5 

III. 

The  Breath  of  the  Blue  Gums  . 

lO 

IV. 

The  Mandala  Express  .... 

i6 

V. 

From  the  Deck  of  the  Queen  . 

22 

VI. 

Lake  Shore  Folks  .... 

27 

VII. 

A  Trip  to  Ngoniland. 

36 

VIII. 

God's  Garden  by  the  Lake. 

45 

IX. 

A  College  in  the  Wilds 

53 

X. 

Along  the  Farthest  Battle-front 

59 

XI. 

Schools  and  Schoolmasters . 

.  67 

XII. 

A  Royal  Homecoming  .... 

74 

XIII. 

A  Highland  Parish 

81 

XIV. 

Maisie  and  Her  Friends 

88 

XV, 

The  Little  Grey  Thread  . 

93 

XVI, 

Round  the  Camp-fire  .... 

•  99 

XVII, 

The  Husband  of  a  Hundred  Wives 

XVIII, 

The  Boma 

109 

XIX. 

114 

XX. 

The  Sign  of  the  Chameleon 

.  119 

XXI. 

.  124 

XXII. 

At  Livingstone's  Grave 

129 

XXIII. 

Chipandwe's  Day  

136 

XXIV. 

The  Lads  of  the  Ulendo  . 

.  141 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

In  the  Far  Country  .... 

151 

XXVII. 

The  Victoria  Falls  .... 

•  157 

XXVIII. 

The  Boys  on  the  Mines 

164 

XXIX, 

The  Shadow  of  the  Great  War  . 

170 

vii 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Machila  Team  at  Bandaw^  Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Rachel  and  Margaret   48 

Isaiah,  Jonathan,  and  Hezekiah   48 

The  Kondowe  Plateau   49 

Dr.  Laws  at  Home   49 

Maisie  and  Harry   90 

Little  Housewives   90 

Kaputa  and  Kawombwe   91 

In  Kafwimbe's  Stockade   91 

Blind  Shiwembia   116 

A  Victim  of  the  Savage  Wemba   116 

At  Livingstone's  Grave   117 


viii 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  CHINDE  MOUTH. 

For  the  convenience  of  passengers  going  ashore  at 
Chind6,  breakfast  will  be  served  at  4.30  A.M."  We  read 
the  words  on  the  notice-board  of  the  Llanstephan  Castle  as 
she  ploughed  her  way  up  the  east  coast  of  Africa  on  the 
evening  of  Saturday,  the  nth  of  April,  in  the  year  of  the 
Great  War.  "  Convenience  "  was,  of  course,  the  purser's 
little  joke.  He  had  no  intention  of  going  ashore.  Few 
indeed  had.  Since  rounding  the  Cape  we  had  touched  at 
every  port  on  the  east  coast  and,  for  a  modest  half-crown 
at  the  most,  we  had  landed  and  seen  the  sights.  But 
Chinde  was  a  different  proposition.  A  fare  of  £2  los,  to  go 
ashore,  with  no  certainty  that  the  steamer  will  wait  your 
return,  in  fact,  with  the  certainty  that  she  will  not,  is 
enough  to  make  the  most  reckless  tourist  pause,  and 
Chinde  remains  unvisited. 

Nor  is  Chinde  ever  likely  to  emerge  from  this  neglect. 
On  the  contrary,  a  cloud  is  upon  the  future.  When  the 
Zambesi  is  bridged  and  the  Nyasaland  railway  is  carried 
down  to  Beira,  Chinde  will  be  side-tracked.  Travellers  to 
the  interior  will  speed  up  country  in  luxurious  ease,  the 
tedium  and  sweltering  heat  of  the  river  voyage  will  be  a 
thing  of  the  past,  and  Chinde  one  of  the  dead  and 
forgotten  places  of  the  earth. 

It  may  not  be  without  interest,  therefore,  to  chronicle 
the  manner  of  the  landing.  It  amounts  to  a  considerable 
voyage,  for  the  liner  is  compelled  to  lie  eight  or  ten  miles 
off  shore  on  account  of  the  silting  of  the  river.  Only  at 
high  tide  can  the  tug  come  out,  and  even  then  she  is  liable 
to  a  nasty  biimp  or  two  on  the  sandy  bar. 

I 


2 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


4.30  A.M.  found  us  at  the  breakfast-table  with  an  excel- 
lent appetite  and  a  consciousness  of  great  virtue.  It  lacked 
an  hour  and  a  half  of  the  dawn  of  Easter  morning,  and  one 
reflected  pleasantly  on  landing  about  sunrise.  Yes,  both 
the  hour  and  the  day  were  singularly  well  chosen. 

*'The  tug  is  not  coming  out  till  the  afternoon,  sir,"  said 
the  steward,  gently  breaking  the  news  in  the  blandest  of 
tones. 

Easter  thoughts  and  feelings  instantly  vanished.  A 
plague  on  the  look-out  man,  he  must  have  known  this  an 
hour  ago,  before  we  were  wakened.  Others  of  the  un- 
fortunate beings,  whose  convenience  had  been  similarly 
consulted,  were  emerging  from  their  cabins.  Little  Peggy 
and  Margaret  were  rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes,  and  baby 
Tommy,  in  his  mother's  arms,  was  dimly  resenting  this 
untimely  alarm.  The  conversation  that  ensued  was  singu- 
larly copious  and  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

All  through  the  sultry  forenoon  the  great  liner  lay- 
rocking  idly.  About  mid-day  a  German  mail  boat  steamed 
down  from  the  north  and  lay  to  about  half  a  mile  away. 
So  this  is  the  reason  why  the  tug  did  not  come  out  in  the 
morning,  for  she,  too,  is  German,  and  a  British  liner  must 
wait  her  convenience.  By  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
the  tug  is  seen  rolling  across  the  bar,  and  when  she  is  laid 
alongside  of  us,  the  ground-swell  keeps  her  tossing  like  a 
cork. 

From  the  superior  height  of  the  liner's  deck  we  look 
down  on  a  mountain  of  luggage,  a  sprinkling  of  passengers, 
and  a  huge  circular  basket,  three  feet  in  diameter  and  six 
in  height.  After  the  tug  is  made  fast,  a  door  is  opened  in 
the  side  of  the  basket,  and,  one  by  one,  the  passengers  are 
seen  to  scramble  in.  The  door  is  shut  and  bolted,  the 
liner's  derrick  whirrs  sharply,  and  the  whole  human  cargo  is 
hoisted  aloft,  swung  round  and  dumped  on  our  afterdeck. 
A  quartermaster  opens  the  door  of  the  basket,  and  its 
occupants  slowly  emerge  with. such  dignity  as  is  possible  to 
human  beings  when  called  upon  to  step  out  of  a  hamper 
like  poultry  on  exhibition. 

It  is  now  our  turn,     Friends  and  fellow-voyagers  ac- 


THE  CHINDE  MOUTH 


3 


company  us  to  the  door  of  the  basket,  we  are  packed 
tightly  in,  swung  out  into  mid-air,  and  deposited  with  a 
sickening  bump  on  the  heaving  deck  of  the  tug.  Thankful 
enough  are  we  that  it  is  the  deck,  for  the  basket  has  been 
known,  on  occasion,  to  take  a  preliminary  dip  into  the  sea. 
We  now  steam  across  to  the  German  liner  and  spend  a 
humiliating  hour  tossing  under  her  side.  Our  own  boat  is 
hull  down  on  the  horizon  ere  we  are  clear  and  turn  to  the 
shore. 

The  tug  is  a  wretched  concern,  her  cabin  a  filthy  hole, 
littered  with  bottles  and  reeking  with  tobacco  and  stale 
beer.  We  huddle  together  on  deck.  At  nightfall  a  chilly 
breeze  springs  up,  making  the  boat  pitch  heavily.  Our 
only  deck  light  is  blown  out,  and  we  are  left  in  darkness. 
Every  one  feels  wretched,  and  the  children,  sick  and  weary, 
begin  to  cry.  As  if  in  Hunnish  contempt  of  human 
misery,  the  skipper  suddenly  starts  a  dreadful  booing  with 
his  foghorn.  On  this.  Tommy,  poor  wee  mite,  seems  to 
lose  all  hope,  and  goes  frantic  beyond  control. 

About  eight  o'clock  we  came  to  anchor  in  the  river 
mouth.  A  gibbous  moon  had  risen  and  was  gleaming 
over  the  river  and  a  few  palm  trees  as  we  pulled  ashore  in 
a  rowing  boat,  whose  gunwale  seemed  only  about  three 
inches  above  the  water.  As  the  keel  grounded  in  the 
slushy  sand,  some  natives  stepped  forward  and  took 
possession  of  us,  uttering  the  word  Mandala  by  way  of 
presenting  their  credentials  as  agents  of  the  African  Lakes' 
Corporation.  One  of  them,  swinging  a  lantern,  led  the 
way  to  the  boarding-house  where  we  were  to  spend  the 
night.  We  waded  after  him  through  sand  as  soft  and 
yielding  as  newly  fallen  snow. 

Chinde  may  be  described  in  a  word  as  heat  and  sand. 
Here,  a  score  or  two  of  unfortunate  exiles  swelter  in 
corrugated-iron  houses,  and  sustain  their  spirits  on  stone 
ginger  at  a  shilling  a  bottle,  unless  they  prefer  some- 
thing stronger  and  dearer.  The  place  is  Portuguese, 
except  twenty-five  acres  on  the  river  front,  which  constitute 
the  British  concession.  The  concession  is  surrounded  by 
a  twelve-foot  palisade,  and  the  entrance  is  guarded  by 


4 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Portuguese  sentries  to  prevent  smuggling,  but,  one  fears, 
with  only  a  doubtful  measure  of  success.  Passing  the 
sentries  at  the  gate  we  found  the  up-river  steamer  moored 
to  the  bank,  and,  in  a  shed  near  by,  our  boxes  half-buried 
in  the  sand.  How  they  had  all  come  safely  ashore  out  of 
that  drunken  and  chaotic  tug  is  a  miracle,  explainable 
only  by  the  fact  that  the  African  carrier,  both  in  his  path- 
less forests  and  on  his  harbourless  coast,  can  give  long  odds 
to  the  British  docker  or  porter  and  beat  him  every  time. 

Chinde  is  the  last  word  in  excess  luggage.  Every 
separate  article,  before  being  put  on  the  river  steamer,  is 
both  weighed  and  measured  by  a  native  clerk.  If  your 
belongings  are  compact  and  heavy,  they  are  charged  by 
weight ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  they  are  light  and  bulky,  you 
have  the  privilege  of  paying  per  cubic  foot.  But  sometimes 
Greek  meets  Greek.  A  veteran  doctor  from  Nyasaland, 
tamer  of  the  wild  Ngoni,  who  well  knew  the  ways  of  the 
river  people,  was  standing  with  his  tirai  hat  on,  keenly 
watching  operations.  After  every  box  and  bag  had  been 
measured,  the  clerk  proceeded  to  apply  his  foot-rule  to  a 
capacious  sun-helmet.    It  was  too  much  for  an  Aberdonian. 

"  I  wear  that,"  said  the  doctor  sternly,  and  seizing  the 
sun-helmet,  he  clapped  it  on  the  top  of  his  hat  and  passed 
triumphantly  on  board  the  boat. 


CHAPTER  11. 


ON   THE  RIVER. 

The  river  steamer  is  of  shallow  draught,  and  is  propelled 
by  a  single  paddle-wheel  at  the  stern,  where  those  who  do 
not  object  to  naked  publicity  can  enjoy  a  rare  shower  bath. 
Barges  are  lashed  to  the  sides  of  the  steamer.  In  our  case 
we  sailed  up  the  river  five  abreast.  By  this  means  the 
tonnage  is  spread  over  a  wide  expanse  of  bottom,  and,  when 
the  barges  run  aground  on  sand  banks,  the  steamer  remains 
afloat,  and  is  able  to  bring  them  off.  The  barges  are  piled 
high  with  firewood,  upon  which  the  native  passengers  squat 
as  best  they  can,  with  no  cover  of  any  kind  by  day  or  night. 
The  holds  are  packed  with  cargo,  except  one,  which,  in  our 
case,  was  reserved  for  some  members  of  the  Mbuzi  family, 
who  were  making  the  river  trip  with  us,  less  for  their  health 
than  for  ours, 

Mbuzi  deserves  a  sentence.  The  family  is  more  widely 
known  and  esteemed  in  Central  Africa  than  any  other,  with 
the  exception  of  the  ubiquitous  clan  of  the  Nkuku.  The 
day  we  left  Chinde  we  met  the  company  on  their  way  to  the 
boat,  a  venerable  individual  in  front,  with  long  sweeping 
beard,  and  other  members  of  the  family,  of  more  tender 
years,  following. 

You  will  meet  that  old  fellow  again,"  remarked  our 
pawky  friend,  Stuart,  with  grim  significance. 

So  we  did.  Everything  on  the  barges  takes  place  in  the 
eye  of  the  public,  concealment  being  impossible.  Accord- 
ingly, next  morning  the  poor  old  fellow  was  suddenly 
assaulted  and  slain  before  our  very  eyes.  By  dinner-time, 
he  was  on  the  table.  After  that  it  was  Mbuzi  in  all  moods 
and  tenses — boiled  and  baked,  roasted  and  stewed,  curried 

(5) 


6  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


and  hashed.  A  few,  perhaps,  enjoyed  it,  most  of  us  simply 
sat  it  out.  Goat's  flesh  may  be  highly  nutritious,  but 
after  what  passed  on  the  river  may  I  never  see  it  again. 

Of  scenery  on  the  lower  Zambesi  there  is  none.  It  is 
an  immense  and  featureless  delta.  Two  lines  of  straggling 
palms  on  the  far  horizon  mark  its  boundaries.  The  country 
between  is  dead  flat,  and  covered  with  elephant  grass  from 
eight  to  twelve  feet  high.  The  whole  forms  a  network  of 
streams,  islands,  and  sandbanks,  ever  shifting  and  changing, 
so  that  the  main  stream  of  to-day  may  become  an  unvisited 
backwater  to-morrow.  The  gigantic  reeds  and  grasses  on 
the  banks  deceive  the  eye  strangely,  and  make  the  channel 
appear  much  narrower  than  it  really  is.  Only  when  a 
native  appears,  looking  like  a  pigmy  among  the  grass,  is 
the  eye  corrected  to  the  true  scale  and  the  real  distance  of 
the  bank  appreciated. 

The  heat  is  intense.  The  steamer's  deck  is  covered  by 
a  light  upper  deck,  on  which  the  native  steersman  stands 
at  his  wheel,  glancing  ahead  with  expert  eye,  and  picking 
out  the  channel  by  the  surface  colour  of  the  water.  The 
space  between  decks  forms  a  perfect  oven,  with  the  sun 
beating  on  the  roof  and  the  engine  blazing  below.  Between 
the  two  fires  the  much-enduring  passengers  are  slowly 
roasted  day  by  day.  At  night  the  steamer  is  tied  to  the 
bank,  and  myriads  of  mosquitoes  swarm  on  board  with 
murderous  intent.  But  at  last  a  period  of  delicious  respite 
comes,  when,  having  spread  your  bed  on  deck  and  suspended 
your  mosquito  net  over  it  by  some  cunning  arrangement  ot 
strings,  you  creep  inside  and  carefully  tuck  in  the  corners 
of  the  net.  Frail  little  castle  of  flimsy  network,  yet  safe 
as  the  Tower  of  London !  The  enemy  rages  and  storms 
without.  Frontal  and  flank  attack,  aeroplane  and  mine, 
are  alike  vain.  The  noise  of  battle  is  delicious  music  in 
your  drowsy  ears  and  you  fall  asleep. 

The  moment  of  awaking  is  equally  pleasant.  The  boat 
is  under  way,  and  her  motion  coaxes  the  cool  night  air  into 
a  gentle  breeze.  You  turn  your  head  upon  your  pillow, 
and  watch  the  soft  coming  of  the  dawn.  On  the  barges 
below  dark  forms  of  sleepers  begin  to  appear  and  then  to 


ON  THE  RIVER 


7 


stir.  Soon  the  morning  is  broad  awake,  and  all  too  quickly 
leads  in  another  fiery  day. 

On  the  third  day  up  the  river,  the  hitherto  unbroken 
flatness  gave  place  to  a  rising  ground  on  the  south  bank, 
towards  which  we  looked  with  deepest  interest.  It  was 
Shupanga,  that  memorable  spot  where  David  Livingstone 
buried  his  wife,  Mary  Mofifat,  and  tasted  the  deepest  sorrow 
of  his  life.  For  some  of  our  company  the  place  had  deeply 
affecting  associations.  Two  grandchildren  of  Livingstone, 
Dr.  Wilson  and  his  sister,  were  on  board,  both  of  whom 
were  on  their  way  to  the  far  interior  to  take  up  their  grand- 
father's work  among  the  people  where  he  died.  Together 
we  visited  the  grave. 

Overlooking  the  river,  about  a  hundred  yards  up  the  slope, 
stands  the  house,  a  long,  plain,  substantial  building,  once  a 
Portuguese  residence,  now  occupied  by  a  Jesuit  mission.  In 
appearance  it  curiously  resembles  a  Scotch  farm  steading,  a 
resemblance  which  is  increased  by  a  low  archway  in  the 
centre,  wide  enough  to  admit  a  cart.  The  room  immediately 
to  the  left  of  this  archway  is  the  one  in  which  Mrs.  Living- 
stone died,  "at  the  close  of  a  long,  clear,  hot  day,  the  last  Sab- 
bath of  April,  1862".  The  graveyard  lies  to  the  east  of  the 
house.  It  occupies  a  space  of  from  twenty  to  thirty  yards 
square,  and  is  roughly  enclosed  by  a  cactus  hedge.  Mrs. 
Livingstone's  grave  is  in  the  centre,  under  a  shady  tree. 
It  is  covered  by  a  massive  block  of  cement,  while  an  up- 
right headstone  carries  a  double  inscription,  in  English  on  the 
one  side  and  in  Portuguese  on  the  other.  Six  other  graves 
are  grouped  around,  only  one  of  which  is  English.  The 
site,  though  only  of  moderate  elevation,  commands  a  wide 
view  over  the  river  and  the  plain  northward  to  the  Shire 
Highlands.  In  the  southern  hemisphere,  the  north  is,  of 
course,  the  sunny  exposure,  and  one  remarked  on  the 
minute  accuracy  of  the  great  explorer  who  wrote,  years 
after  in  his  last  journal,  of  his  poor  Mary  lying  "  on  Shup- 
anga brae  that  beeks  forenent  the  sun 

Next  day  we  turned  north  into  the  Shire  and  began  to 
draw  towards  the  hills.  The  massive,  lion-like  form  of 
Morumbala  Mountain  rose  bold  and  solitary  from  the  plain. 


8 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


As  the  river  wound  round  its  base  and  along  its  side  one 
was  reminded,  though  on  a  far  grander  scale,  of  the  scene 
where  "  Gaudie  rins  at  the  back  o'  Bennachie The 
country  round,  like  the  whole  Zambesi  basin,  must  be  in 
the  rainy  season  a  gigantic,  steaming  marsh,  and  desperately 
unhealthy. 

At  this  point  we  set  on  shore  a  wandering  Scot  whom 
we  had  picked  up  near  Shupanga.  He  professed  to  have 
come  through  the  Amatongas  Forest  from  Rhodesia,  had 
lost  all  his  belongings  in  crossing  a  river,  and,  on  reaching 
the  Zambesi  in  rags,  had  been  fitted  by  some  planter  with 
white  flannels  of  antique  cut.  Alter  a  shave  with  a  bor- 
rowed razor  and  a  wash  up  he  appeared  an  uncommonly 
intelligent  and  interesting  fellow.  He  had  gone  out  to  the 
Boer  War  and  roamed  through  Africa  ever  since.  He  was 
quite  at  home  on  the  Zambesi,  knew  all  the  sugar  planta- 
tions on  the  river,  and  spun  endless  yarns  about  old  Reposa 
and  Donna  Maria.  With  these  he  mingled  curious  inquiries 
about  his  native  county  of  Banff.  As  he  stepped  ashore 
he  presented  an  extraordinary  figure,  dressed  like  a  cricketer 
of  the  early  nineties,  and  starting  off  serenely  for  some 
destination  known  only  to  himself,  in  an  apparently  unin- 
habited country  with  all  his  earthly  belongings  in  a  small 
paper  parcel  under  his  arm.  A  typical  rolling  stone,  one  has 
often  wondered  what  became  of  him.  Doubtless  the  call 
of  the  Great  War  would  reach  him  in  the  wilds,  and  he 
would  roll  into  the  firing  line  somewhere  for  the  glory  of 
the  old  Empire, 

The  comparative  narrowness  of  the  Shire  brought  the 
steamer  nearer  the  banks  which  rose  steeply  on  either  hand 
to  about  the  height  of  our  upper  deck.  Villages  straggled 
along  the  level  top  of  the  bank  with  here  and  there  a  few 
banana  trees.  Out  of  these  villages  the  naked  urchins 
rushed  as  the  steamer  passed,  and  pursued  a  parallel  course 
along  the  bank  with  shouts  of  "  Botelle,  Botelle  ".  How 
natural  and  boylike  it  was  !  One  instantly  thought  of  the 
village  boys  in  Scotland  pursuing  the  passing  picnic  with 
their  equally  urgent  cry  of  "  Pour  oot The  skipper 
obligingly  gathered  a  few  empty  bottles  and  pitched  them 


ON  THE  RIVER 


9 


one  by  one  into  midstream.  Down  the  bank  headlong 
came  the  boys  hke  a  pack  of  hounds  and  piunged  into  the 
water  with  a  resounding  splash.  Not  a  care  had  they  for 
the  crocodiles  that  swarm  in  the  river.  Probably,  amid  the 
din  and  the  splashing,  they  were  safe  enough,  for  the  croco- 
dile is  a  cowardly  brute.  Some  there  were,  however,  who 
ran  and  shouted  among  the  foremost,  but  who  never  ven- 
tured to  make  the  plunge.  Timid  souls,  never  likely  to 
win  a  prize  in  life — not  even  an  empty  bottle ! 

The  yellow,  muddy  water  of  the  river  still  showed  traces 
of  the  recent  great  flood,  when  a  cloud-burst  among  the 
mountains  had  washed  out  the  Shir6  Highlands  Railway 
and  carried  destruction  and  death  down  the  valleys.  Some 
villages  had  plainly  been  submerged  and  were  beginning 
to  be  repaired.  Traces  of  the  wreckage  were  still  being 
carried  down  the  river.  A  dark  brown  object  came  float- 
ing sullenly  past.  That  it  was  a  body  there  could  be  no 
doubt,  for  the  outline  of  the  ribs  was  plainly  visible.  A 
remark  was  made  as  to  whether  the  body  was  that  of  a 
native  or  of  a  dog.  Four  gay  young  spirits,  such  as  Britain 
has  too  often  sent  out  to  exploit  the  lower  races  of  the 
earth,  were  at  the  moment  busy  playing  poker.  One  of 
them,  overhearing  the  remark,  turned  half  round  : — 

"  A  nigger  or  a  dog  ?  "  he  jerked  out  over  his  shoulder. 
Well,  demmit,  what's  the  difference?"  And  he  planked 
down  another  card. 

Missionaries  of  Empire  !  Apostles  of  Civilisation  !  Alas 
for  the  land  that  sends  you  out,  and,  yet  again,  alas  for 
yourselves  who  are  sent ! 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  BREATH  OF  THE  BLUE  GUMS. 

The  Shire  River,  after  oozing  out  of  the  south  end  of  Lake 
Nyasa  and  floating  sluggishly  past  Liwondd,  begins  to 
thread  the  glens  of  the  Shir6  Highlands.  Gathering  strength 
and  volume  from  the  surrounding  hills,  it  roars  down 
through  seventy  miles  of  cataract  to  the  great  plain  of  the 
Zambesi.  A  complete  barrier  to  navigation  is  thus  inter- 
posed between  the  Lake  and  the  lower  river,  and  one  of  the 
finest  waterways  into  the  heart  of  Africa  is  cut  in  two.  By 
way  of  compensation,  however,  the  Shire  Highlands  afford 
a  healthy  region  of  rare  beauty  which  has  now  become  the 
centre  of  commerce  and  government  for  all  Nyasaland. 

The  first  steamer  ever  launched  on  an  African  lake  was 
carried  through  these  hills  by  the  invincible  energy  of  a 
handful  of  Scots  missionaries.  It  is  a  heroic  story  that 
bears  retelling.  Sent  out  from  Scotland  in  1875  to  found 
a  mission  in  memory  of  Livingstone,  whose  death  the  pre- 
vious year  had  thrilled  and  awakened  Christendom,  Dr. 
Laws  and  his  comrades  were  put  ashore  at  the  Zambesi 
mouth  with  the  component  parts  of  their  little  steamer,  the 
Ilala.  They  set  to  work  to  put  her  together,  found  the 
bolts  a  mass  of  rust,  sat  down  and  patiently  scoured  them 
clean,  then  built  and  launched  the  boat.  Up  the  Zambesi 
and  the  Shire  they  steamed,  feeling  their  way,  cutting  their 
way.  At  the  Elephant  Marsh,  beside  Morumbala,  it  was 
terrible  work  clearing  a  channel  through  the  sudd.  "  Hand 
me  another  glass  of  Shire,"  panted  the  funny  man,  licking 
his  baked  lips. 

A  feeble  jest,  perhaps,  but  notable  enough  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, and  recalled  with  a  smile  forty  years  after  bv 

(10) 


THE  BREATH  OF  THE  BLUE  GUMS  ii 

the  last  of  the  veterans,  as  he  spoke  of  the  grand  old  toil- 
some, killing  days.  At  the  barrier  of  the  hills  they  were 
held  up.  The  seventy  miles  of  cataract  were  not  in  the 
programme,  but  Scots  grit  put  it  through.  A  thousand 
carriers  were  assembled,  the  steamer  was  unloaded,  taken 
to  pieces,  and  carried  over  the  hills  to  the  upper  river.  In 
a  few  weeks  more  the  Ilala  was  ploughing  the  virgin  waters 
of  the  lake,  a  herald  of  Christian  civilisation  and  the  seal 
of  the  slave-raider's  doom. 

The  river  voyage  to-day  ends  at  Port  Herald,  the  port  of 
entry  to  Nyasaland.  A  post  office  and  custom  house,  a 
railway  station  and  some  houses  scattered  among  the  trees, 
with  a  fine  background  of  steep,  wooded  hills,  such  is  Port 
Herald — pretty  enough,  but  sodden  with  the  heat  of  the 
river  and  tortured  with  its  insect  life.  There  are  said  to  be 
I  50  species  of  mosquito,  and  probably  they  can  all  be  found 
at  Port  Herald.  On  the  last  night  we  spent  on  board  the 
boat  these  Huns  of  the  air  came  in  swarms  from  the  bank 
as  if  knowing  that  their  time  was  short.  With  the  mos- 
quitoes came  venomous  hippo  flies,  like  bluebottles,  and 
ponderous  flying  beetles,  with  the  lumbering  gait  of  lorry 
horses — a  veritable  Egyptian  plague  which  made  eating  a 
disgust  and  rest  impossible. 

Next  morning  by  seven  o'clock  we  were  aboard  the 
train  for  Blantyre.  The  Shir6  Highlands  Railway  has 
opened  a  path  into  the  heart  of  the  hills.  In  its  hundred 
odd  miles  of  length  it  climbs  up  3000  feet  from  the 
sweltering  flat  to  a  place  of  cool,  clear  air  and  fresh 
mountain  breezes.  The  scenery  on  the  way  reminds  one 
of  the  Scottish  Highlands.  It  is  remarkable  how  homelike 
is  the  general  aspect  of  the  forest.  There  are  the  same 
shades  of  green,  and  apparently  the  same  species  of  trees. 
Only  when  one  fixes  on  a  particular  tree  one  perceives  it  is 
neither  oak  nor  elm  nor  ash,  but  something  with  a  puzzling 
resemblance  to  them  all.  Looking  casually  at  the  under- 
growth one  would  say,  "  This  is  rough  Scottish  woodland 
with  coarse  grass  and  brambles,  wild  raspberries  and  dog- 
roses  ".  An  occasional  grove  of  bamboos  or  a  few  bananas 
hardly  alter  the  impression.    The  vague  popular  idea  that 


12  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


tropical  countries  grow  little  else  but  palms  is  a  complete 
mistake.  In  Central  Africa  the  palm  is  so  rare  as  to  be 
quite  conspicuous  when  met  with. 

After  ten  hours  of  climbing — so  slow  at  times  that  the 
native  guard  leaned  out  of  the  van  and  talked  with  his 
friends  in  passing — we  came  out  on  the  uplands.  Away  to 
the  east  Mlanj6  Mountain  towered  up  to  a  height  of  10,000 
feet.  In  every  fold  and  hollow  of  the  hills  plantations  of 
cotton  and  tobacco,  with  some  rubber  trees,  were  to  be  seen, 
clearings  hacked  out  of  the  primeval  tangle,  and  only  de- 
fended from  its  encroachment  by  the  incessant  labour  of 
the  hoe. 

Blantyre  is  buried  among  trees  and  everywhere  the  place 
is  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  the  blue  gums.  The  moment 
you  step  out  of  the  railway  carriage  it  comes  floating  round 
you  like  spices  from  heaven's  own  garden.  At  the  first 
whiff  the  nostrils  dilate,  the  lungs  expand  and  gasp  for 
more.  You  can  think  of  nothing  but  to  stand  and  draw  in 
long,  deep,  satisfying  breaths  till  every  tissue  is  bathed  and 
saturated  in  the  balmy  air.  If  there  be  any  truth  in 
Kipling's  assertion  that  foreign  places  are  chiefly  remembered 
by  their  smell,  then  must  the  memory  of  Blantyre  be  to 
every  traveller  unfading  and  divine.  Seated  that  evening 
on  the  veranda  of  the  boarding  house,  which  looks  across 
the  fragrant  woods  out  of  which  peeped  the  roofs  of  bunga- 
lows, and  away  to  the  distant  hills  behind  which  the  sun  was 
setting,  as  one  gratefully  drank  in  the  coolness  of  the  breeze 
after  the  fiery  furnace  of  the  river,  one  felt  a  dreamy,  de- 
licious sense  as  of  Paradise  Regained. 

Blantyre  was  born,  christened  and  nurtured  under  the 
auspices  of  Church  of  Scotland  missionaries.  When  the 
pioneers  of  the  Ilala  established  themselves  farther  north 
on  Lake  Nyasa,  the  Church  of  Scotland  men  who  accom- 
panied them  chose  this  site  in  the  Shire  Highlands  and 
named  it  after  Livingstone's  birthplace.  Subsequent  events 
have  confirmed  the  wisdom  of  the  choice,  for  Blantyre  to- 
day is  the  commercial  centre  of  Nyasaland.  In  the  wild, 
unsettled  period  before  the  coming  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment, the  Mission  virtually  ruled  the  district,  a  position 


THE  BREATH  OF  THE  BLUE  GUMS 


13 


which  was  not  without  its  perils.  Now,  however,  under  a 
stable  government,  the  Mission  reaps  the  fruit  of  forty  years 
of  strenuous  and  devoted  labour,  and  stands  out  as  the 
greatest  Christian  and  civilising  agency  in  South  Nyasaland. 

The  Mission  is  approached  from  the  railway  station  by 
an  avenue  which  winds  up  for  a  mile  or  so  through  a 
plantation  of  blue  gums.  At  the  head  of  the  avenue  stands 
the  church,  a  perfect  gem  of  architecture  and  one  of  the 
seven  wonders  of  Africa.  It  was  designed  by  the  genius  of 
Dr.  Clement  Scott,  and  built  of  sun-dried  brick  by  natives 
under  his  supervision.  A  curious  and  beautiful  effect  is 
produced  by  these  hand-moulded  bricks.  They  have  noth- 
ing in  common  with  the  precise,  angular,  raw-edged,  machine- 
made,  thirty-shillings-a-thousand  type  of  brick.  They  bear, 
unashamed,  the  mark  of  the  handicraftsman ;  they  take 
kindly  to  one  another,  and  cling  together  in  the  most 
natural  way.  The  effect  is  to  give  the  building  an  antique 
appearance,  as  if  it  had  been  built  500  years  ago,  and  been 
weathered  by  centuries  of  summer  sun  and  winter  frost. 
So  perfect  are  the  proportions  that  one  is  deceived  as  to  the 
size.  A  photograph — and  no  African  building  has  been 
more  frequently  photographed — gives  the  impression  of  a 
cathedral ;  in  reality  the  building  is  quite  small,  too  small,  in 
fact,  for  the  needs  of  the  Mission.  The  aisles  are  but  a 
yard  in  width,  the  nave  has  room  only  for  four  or  five  chairs 
on  either  side  of  a  wide,  middle  passage.  Yet  one  would  wish 
nothing  different.    To  alter  or  to  add  would  be  desecration. 

In  the  front  of  the  church  a  brass  tablet  is  inserted,  re- 
cording the  fact  that  here  a  certain  industrious  consul  of 
Zanzibar,  by  365  observations  of  the  stars,  established  the 
fact  that  Blantyre  is  2  hours  20  minutes  13  seconds  east 
of  Greenwich.  Well,  some  people  do  love  to  make  their 
position  clear. 

Around  and  behind  the  church  are  grouped  all  the  build- 
ings necessary  to  a  first-class  Mission — school,  hospital  and 
workshops,  all  in  excellent  condition  and  humming  with  life. 
Carpentry  and  cabinet-making,  printing  and  tailoring  are 
taught  to  the  boys ;  dressmaking  and  needlework  to  the 
girls.    All  the  linen  of  the  planters  for  miles  round  is 


14 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


dressed  at  the  laundry.  The  experimental  garden  is  under 
the  care  of  a  Scots  gardener.  But  it  is  superfluous  to  re- 
mark on  the  nationality  of  the  gardener  where  every  one  is 
a  Scot  and  everywhere  are  evidences  of  Scottish  thorough- 
ness. Dr.  Hetherwick,  the  head  of  the  Mission,  the 
pawkiest  of  Aberdonians,  dispenses  a  genial  hospitality  in 
his  study,  where  he  sits  among  his  books  with  no  ceiling 
over  him  but  the  rough-hewn  rafters  and  the  bare  thatch. 
Even  the  planter  who  loves  the  Mission  least  has  nothing 
but  praise  for  the  Doctor. 

The  name  of  Blantyre  is  a  credential  in  Central  Africa 
which  will  carry  a  boy  far.  Travelling  in  Rhodesia,  a 
thousand  miles  from  the  lake,  one  heard  the  name  of 
Blantyre  on  the  lips  of  those  who  could  not  tell  where 
Blantyre  was,  nor  cared  to  know.  Only,  to  them,  a  Blan- 
tyre boy  was  a  good  boy  and  in  great  demand. 

It  was  Saturday  night  when  we  reached  Blantyre,  and 
the  Sunday  morning  native  service  was  an  experience  to 
remember  and  give  thanks  for.  The  breath  of  the  blue 
gums  imparted  an  indescribable  fragrance  to  the  air  as  we 
walked  up  the  avenue.  It  was  a  perfect  Sabbath  morning. 
A  well-clad,  reverent  congregation  filled  the  church. 
Everything  in  the  service  was  unfamiliar  save  the  hymns. 
These,  being  for  the  most  part  translations  of  the  finest 
English  hymns  and  sung  to  the  same  tunes,  grip  the  heart 
strangely.  Moreover,  as  the  native  languages  are  written 
phonetically  and  according  to  classical  pronunciation,  one 
can  join  in  the  singing  with  little  difficulty.  When  the 
first  notes  of  the  opening  hymn  swelled  out  and  were  recog- 
nised, there  came  an  instant  and  overwhelming  sense  of 
Christian  brotherhood  and  of  the  unity  of  the  faith.  One, 
at  least,  of  that  audience  will  never  forget  that  the  first 
hymn  in  which  he  joined  with  the  children  of  darkest  x\frica, 
was  the  sublime  prayer  : — 

Thou  whose  almighty  word 
Chaos  and  darkness  heard, 

And  took  their  flight, 
Hear  us  we  humbl}'  pray, 
And  where  the  Gospel  day 
Sheds  not  its  glorious  ray 

Let  there  be  light. 


THE  BREATH  OF  THE  BLUE  GUMS 


15 


Nor  will  he  forget  how  a  woman's  voice  rose  sweet  and 
clear  as  if  thrilling  with  the  joy  of  emancipated  woman- 
hood. 

In  the  evening  a  service  was  held  for  Europeans,  but  the 
audience  was  sadly  different.  Less  than  a  score  were  pre- 
sent, besides  the  members  of  the  staff.  The  good  Doctor, 
in  his  abounding  charity,  excused  the  meagre  attendance. 
There  was  a  cricket-match  on  at  Zomba.  And  for  this 
the  children  of  the  Kingdom  despise  their  birthright !  It 
was  the  first  of  many  similar,  heartbreaking  scenes  that  one 
witnessed  in  Africa,  at  the  mines  and  in  the  towns  where 
black  and  white  meet — native  churches  filled  with  eager, 
reverent  worshippers,  while  the  white  man  is  absorbed  in 
his  Sunday  golf  and  cricket.  Yet  some  of  these  men 
would  claim  the  Christian  heritage  as  a  national  posses- 
sion and  deny  with  an  oath  the  black  man's  right  to  share  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  MANDALA  EXPRESS. 

One  has  often  regretted  the  passing  of  the  old  stage-coach. 
Travel  in  those  days  may  have  been  less  swift  and  luxurious, 
but  surely  it  was  far  more  picturesque  and  exhilarating. 
Smoke  and  cinders,  tunnels  and  cuttings,  are  but  poor 
substitutes  for  the  crack  of  the  whip,  the  music  of  the  horn, 
and  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  ringing  on  the  hard  road. 
Yet  the  stage-coach  in  the  height  of  its  glory  must  have 
been  a  tame  affair  in  comparison  to  the  riotous  onrush  of 
the  Mandala  express. 

Mandala,  properly  the  African  Lakes'  Corporation,  is 
the  universal  provider  and  carrier,  banker  and  agent  in 
Central  Africa.  The  name,  Mandala,  means  spectacles, 
the  said  spectacles  having  been  worn  by  one  of  the  heroic 
and  indomitable  brothers  Moir,  who  looked  through  them 
so  forcefully  that  they  became  to  the  native  mind  the  sym- 
bol of  all  authority.  A  Glasgow  commercial  company, 
formed  for  the  development  of  the  country  by  friends  of 
the  Livingstonia  Mission,  Mandala  is  a  true  child  of  the 
typical  Scottish  business  man  whose  head  is  in  the  right 
place  as  well  as  his  heart,  and  who  holds  with  a  firm  grip 
the  national  faith  that  sound  business  and  true  religion 
need  never  be  divorced.  What  the  result  has  been  in  this 
case  may  be  variously  estimated. 

"  Ye  maun  either  be  a  Mandala  man  or  a  Christian,"  said 
a  vexed  employee  cynically.    "  Ye  canna  be  baith." 

But  such  a  verdict,  if  taken  seriously,  would  be  far  from 
just.  Mandala  is  simply  Glasgow  in  Nyasaland,  with  all 
its  push  and  go,  tact  and  integrity.  In  the  old  days,  under 
the  brilliant  leadership  of  John  and  Fred  Moir,  it  fought  the 

(i6) 


THE  MANDALA  EXPRESS 


slave-raider  and  held  open  the  door  into  the  interior.  Its 
trade  preceded,  instead  of  following,  the  flag,  and  to-day- 
it  is  a  power  in  Nyasaland  second  only  to  the  Government. 
Having  passed  through  the  hands  of  its  agents  from  Chindd 
to  Karonga,  and  from  Mwenzo  to  Broken  Hill,  in  steamers, 
stores,  and  rest-houses,  I  gratefully  put  on  record  that  a 
finer  set  of  fellows  1  never  wish  to  meet. 

Between  Blantyre  and  Fort  Johnstone,  at  the  south 
end  of  Lake  Nyasa,  there  is  a  gap  of  120  miles 
where  neither  rail  nor  river  is  available  for  transport. 
Here  Mandala  comes  in  to  bridge  the  gap,  and  handles  all 
the  up-country  traffic  by  carrier.  A  carrier's  load  is  some- 
thing under  three-quarters  of  a  hundredweight.  The  man 
carries  his  own  food  in  addition,  travels  at  his  own  pace, 
sleeps  where  he  will  at  the  roadside,  and  is  expected  to 
make  the  journey  inside  a  week.  Along  the  same  route 
runs  the  Mandala  express,  owning  no  time-table  but  sending 
specials  as  required. 

After  a  day  spent  in  the  great  Mandala  store,  buying 
pots  and  pans  and  all  the  necessaries  of  camp  life,  we  were 
ready  for  the  road.  The  mode  of  travel  is  by  garetta,  a 
rough,  strongly-built  rickshaw,  the  tyres  of  the  wheels  being 
protected  by  strips  of  raw  hide  which,  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,  add  their  own  perfume  to  the  sultry  air.  A  native 
pulls  in  the  shafts  and  four  others  push  behind,  while  three 
or  four  spare  men  complete  the  team,  which  is  under  the 
charge  of  a  capitao.  The  men  are  naked  except  for  coloured 
cotton  loincloths,  dark  blue  Turkish  caps,  and  rings  of 
little  bells  strapped  round  the  right  leg  below  the  knee. 

Two  garettas  sufficed  for  our  party.  In  the  first  sat  a 
lady  of  slender  build,  whose  team  looked  as  if  they  had  a 
soft  job  ;  the  second  carried  a  double  load,  consisting  of  the 
writer  and  a  stalwart  New  Zealander  whose  weight  imperilled 
the  groaning  springs.  The  passengers  aboard  and  the  team 
into  harness,  so  to  speak,  the  capitao  blows  a  policeman's 
whistle  furiously  and  away  we  go.  l^rom  the  start  we 
realise  that  we  are  in  for  the  most  amazing  and  delirious 
experience.  The  team  are  as  wild  as  a  set  of  schoolboys 
broken  loose  for  the  holidays.    They  hoot  like  a  motor, 

2 


1 8  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


puff  like  a  train,  bark,  yell,  roar,  grunt.  "  Mandala,  Man- 
dala,  toot-toot-toot,  zam6-zam6-zam6-za,  ugh-ugh-ugh,  yelp- 
yelp-yelp."  The  runners  behind  stamp  vigorously  with 
their  right  feet  and  chant  to  the  rhythmic  jingle  of  the 
bells.  The  spare  members  of  the  team  bound  alongside 
like  dogs  off  the  leash.    It  is  the  maddest  rout  ever  seen. 

The  road  to  Zomba,  the  only  macadamised  road  in 
Central  Africa,  is  about  equal  to  a  rough,  Highland  road  at 
home,  and  we  bowl  along  it  in  fine  style.  We  sweep 
through  the  hills,  run  into  a  Scotch  mist  and  out  again, 
then  gloriously  down  a  long  brae  with  the  fury  of  a  tornado. 
The  special  delight  of  the  team  is  to  charge  down  upon 
everything  native  and  scatter  it  into  the  grass.  No  road- 
hog  ever  careered  with  such  reckless  joy  and  terror  through 
quiet  lanes  and  sleepy  villages. 

As  the  day  grows  hotter  the  team  slackens  somewhat 
in  their  pace,  slowing  down  occasionally  to  a  walk,  but  still 
running  miles  at  a  stretch,  and  the  ceaseless  tinkle  of  the 
bells  mingles  now  with  short,  quick,  gasping  breaths.  It 
becomes  a  fascination  to  watch  and  listen.  1  close  my  eyes 
and  still  see  the  bronze  backs  and  heaving  shoulders  gleam- 
ing and  steaming  in  the  sun.  I  hear  the  hoarse  panting  of 
the  pack  at  my  ear  and  the  rhythmic  stamp  of  the  jingling 
feet.  It  is  weird  as  a  scene  from  dreamland.  Now  a 
pinch  of  snuff  is  handed  round  without  any  pause  in  the 
running,  and  each  man  in  turn  steps  aside  a  moment  to 
sniff  it  up.  A  native  passing  with  corn  cobs  hands  over 
two  or  three.  The  runners,  indeed,  seem  to  snatch  them 
from  him  with  hardly  a  "  by  your  leave  They  share  them 
round  amicably,  but  there  is  no  stop. 

Meantime  we  have  caught  up  on  two  carriers,  who,  with 
ten  minutes'  start  of  the  garettas,  have  been  tearing  along  in 
front,  one  with  a  big  suit-case,  the  other  with  a  Gladstone 
bag.  One  of  these  men  is  the  proud  prossessor  of  an  old 
print  dress  which  flutters  ridiculously  round  his  ankles  as 
he  runs.  But  Mary  Ann,  as  we  dub  him,  for  all  his  frivolous 
appearance,  has  some  grit.  We  are  twelve  or  fifteen  miles 
out  before  we  come  in  sight  of  him,  and  five  miles  more  ere 
we  catch  him  up.    He  pegs  along  tirelessly  with  a  bag  I 


THE  MANDALA  EXPRESS 


19 


should  not  care  to  carry  half  a  mile,  and  a  goatskin  of  meal 
tied  to  it.  Never  once  does  he  stop  or  put  it  down,  but  shifts 
it  from  shoulder  to  head,  from  head  to  shoulder  as  he  runs. 

Twenty-five  miles  out  a  halt  is  made  for  lunch  at  a 
lonely  rest-house  in  the  forest,  which,  being  but  rarely 
opened,  smells  musty  as  a  long-deserted  barn.  Mandala, 
however,  has  been  there  before  us  and  deposited  sundry 
tins  of  preserved  fruit,  so  we  lunch  royally.  The  runners 
boil  for  themselves  a  pot  of  maize  porridge,  and  in  an  hour 
we  are  on  the  road  again.  The  team  have  no  sort  of  judg- 
ment in  their  going.  Once  on  the  run  they  keep  on,  up 
hill  and  down  dale.  Often  when  we  would  have  got  out  to 
walk,  the  garetta  in  front  tore  on  uphill,  and,  for  the  comfort 
of  the  lady's  nerves,  we  had  perforce  to  follow.  At  every 
pool,  no  matter  how  muddy,  some  of  the  men  paused  a 
moment  to  drink.  At  one  of  these  wayside  pools  we  sud- 
denly came  on  a  native  bathing.  He  had  laid  aside  his 
loincloth  and  was  dabbling  about  in  three  inches  of  water, 
much  like  a  sparrow  in  a  puddle.  The  bather,  in  utter 
confusion  at  the  sight  of  white  faces,  rose  from  the  pool  and 
stood  at  attention.  Now,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that 
though  natives  wear  little,  they  count  that  little  of  no  im- 
portance. On  the  contrary  they  regard  their  meagre  rag  as 
simply  vital.  Our  team  were  unspeakably  scandalised. 
Without  a  word  of  parley  three  of  them  leaped  on  the 
offending  bather  and  crumpled  him  down  into  the  mud, 
where  he  crouched  abjectly  till  we  passed. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  swung  round  the  shoulder  of  a 
hill,  and  "  Zomba  !  "  cried  the  capitao,  pointing  across  the 
valley. 

"  Zomba,  Zomba,  ha-ha-ha,  yelp-yelp-yelp,"  answered  the 
pack. 

A  big,  blue  mountain  appeared  in  front,  with  woods  along 
its  base  and  red  roofs  dotting  the  lower  slopes.  Down  the 
hill  we  swept  and  across  the  bridge.  A  short,  stiff  climb 
up,  and  then  a  last  triumphant  rush  down  an  avenue  of  blue 
gums,  past  the  tennis-green  where  gaily-dressed  ladies  were 
playing  tennis,  and  up  to  the  boarding-house  with  a  final 
flourish. 


20  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Well  done,  Mandala !  Forty-two  miles  in  eight  hours, 
with  bare  feet  over  a  stony  road,  and  energy  enough  blown 
off  in  steam  to  have  gone  as  far  again. 

Time  did  not  permit  me  to  do  justice  to  Zomba,  much  as 
my  curiosity  had  been  aroused  in  regard  to  that  remarkable 
place.  Some  time  before  our  visit,  an  imaginative  traveller, 
having  penetrated  thus  far  into  the  wilds,  returned  to 
civilisation  with  strange  tales  of  a  Governor's  Council  where 
pompous  majors  strut  and  pose,  while  missionaries  of 
fabulous  age  and  wisdom  sit  stroking  their  snow-white 
beards.  This  effusion,  when  reported  in  Zomba,  generated 
enough  heat  to  keep  the  luckless  Mission  in  warm  water 
for  a  twelvemonth.  Happily,  the  truth  is  that  in  few 
countries  are  Government  and  Mission  on  more  cordial 
terms. 

Next  morning  our  team  came  up  as  fresh  as  paint,  and  we 
set  off  again  while  the  mist  hung  low  on  Zomba  mountain. 
A  contmuance  of  yesterday's  pace  was  not  to  be  looked  for. 
After  Zomba  the  road  is  execrable,  except  where  there  is 
no  road  to  execrate.  It  was  pull  and  push,  hoist  and  heave, 
and  bring  her  through  by  main  strength.  In  two  and  a 
half  days  they  brought  us  through  to  Fort  Johnston,  a  really 
great  achievement.  A  relief  team  came  out  to  meet  us 
under  a  capitao  who  had  once  possessed  a  cotton  shirt,  the 
yoke  of  which  with  a  few  dependent  ribbons  still  adorned 
his  shoulders.  They  were  a  poor  team  but  a  lusty  choir, 
so  we  agreed  to  call  it  a  concert  and  sat  it  out. 

All  along  the  way  we  had  passed  the  heavy  goods  carriers 
plodding  on,  some  with  cruelly  hard  and  angular  boxes  on 
their  bare  shoulders,  some  in  pairs  with  a  bulky  case  or 
package  slung  between  them  on  a  pole.  It  seems  a  mad 
thing  to  send  a  native  off  on  his  own  into  the  wilds  with  a 
load  that  to  him  would  be  a  fortune,  yet  sooner  or  later  they 
all  arrive. 

"  Oh,  yes,  goods  get  lost,  but  always  below  Blantyre,"  said 
the  agent  at  Fort  Johnston.  "We  despatch  and  receive 
ten  to  twenty  thousand  loads  per  annum,  and,  in  my  time, 
only  one  has  gone  amissing."  It  was  a  great  testimonial 
to  native  fidelity. 


THE  MANDALA  EXPRESS  21 


There  is  a  near  prospect,  one  hears,  of  the  railway  going 
through  to  Fort  Johnston.  It  is  the  inevitable,  in  Africa 
as  elsewhere.  Perhaps  the  day  is  coming  when  all  our 
modes  of  travel  will  be  so  completely  perfected  and 
standardised  that  it  will  not  be  worth  while  to  stir  from  home. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  world  will  be  less  picturesque,  less 
rich  in  possibilities  of  glorious  experience,  on  the  day  when 
the  Mandala  express  has  ceased  to  run. 


CHAPTER  V. 


FROM  THE  DECK  OF  THE  QUEEN. 

The  builders  of  Fort  Johnston  had  big  ideas.  They 
dreamed  of  their  city  as  the  Chicago  of  Lake  Nyasa.  So 
they  ran  up  a  main  street  from  the  river  with  90  feet  of 
roadway  in  the  centre,  flanked  on  either  side  by  two  rows 
of  trees  and  double  sidewalks,  making  a  total  width  of  150 
feet.  Ample  side  streets  were  laid  out  in  similar  fashion  at 
right  angles.  Bungalows  were  built,  embowered  in  trees, 
a  handsome  Jubilee  memorial  was  erected  to  Queen  Vic- 
toria at  the  foot  of  the  main  street,  and  Fort  Johnston 
prepared  to  expand  and  flourish. 

But  alas  for  human  dreams  and  plans  !  The  level  of  the 
lake  fell  15  feet,  the  river  degenerated  into  a  stagnant 
marsh,  so  that  the  lake  steamer  could  not  come  within  five 
miles  of  the  town,  and  Fort  Johnston  became  a  city  oi 
vacant  avenues  and  deserted  bungalows.  A  mere  handful 
of  Government  officials  and  Mandala  men  remained  to  keep 
life  in  the  place.  Whether  the  railway,  when  it  comes,  will 
revive  the  town  or  pass  it  by  is  as  yet  undetermined. 

Still  there  are  worse  places  to  spend  a  week-end  in  than 
the  Mandala  boarding-house  at  the  fort.  Delicious  fish, 
fresh  from  the  lake,  unlimited  lime  juice,  pressed  from 
golden  lemons  falling  to  the  ground  in  bushels,  an  airy 
veranda  to  lounge  in,  overlooking  the  river  and  the  rocky, 
wooded  hills  beyond,  constitute  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
hydropathic  that  one  can  hope  to  strike  in  the  region  of  the 
great  lakes. 

Three  miles  beyond  Fort  Johnston  is  Mponda's,  once  the 
stronghold  of  a  troublesome,  slave-raiding  chief,  whom  the 
fort  was  built  to  overawe,  now  a  mission  station  of  the  Uni- 

(22) 


FROM  THE  DECK  OF  THE  QUEEN  23 


versities'  Mission.  Here  I  parted  from  my  stalwart  New 
Zealander  with  some  reluctance,  I  confess,  for  he  seemed 
not  at  all  the  stuff  of  which  pale  ritualists  are  made.  We 
joined  at  evensong  in  chanting  the  **  Magnificat "  in  Yao  as 
best  we  could,  but  as  we  strove  to  follow  the  service,  the 
elaborate  ritual  of  which  was  only  half- intelligible  to  us,  we 
could  not  help  wondering  what  the  handful  of  natives  be- 
hind us  were  making  of  it.  Beneath  the  priestly  robes  of 
the  ministrants  one  knew  there  were  two  fine,  companion- 
able fellows  clad  in  the  briefest  of  white  duck  shorts,  and 
there  seemed  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  as  natural 
in  divine  worship  as  they  had  been  an  hour  before  in  human 
intercourse.  After  the  benediction  the  chanting  died  away 
in  the  vestry,  and  one  rose  saddened  that  such  mysterious 
formalities  should  be  thrust  in,  as  it  seemed  unnecessarily, 
between  a  primitive  people  and  their  God. 

At  the  head  of  the  river,  5  miles  above  the  fort,  the 
lake  steamer  lay  waiting  us.  We  embarked  in  a  houseboat, 
and  after  being  towed  by  a  little  launch  as  far  as  the  clear 
water  went,  we  were  punted  along  by  six  boatmen  with  long 
bamboo  poles.  Here  the  river  bed  is  a  mass  of  floating 
sudd,  firmly  interlaced,  through  which  a  narrow  channel  is 
with  difficulty  kept  open  to  the  lake.  Through  this  channel 
we  slowly  moved  to  the  music  of  the  boatmen's  chant  and 
the  drip  of  the  poles. 

At  the  end  of  the  channel  appeared  a  vast  expanse  of 
deep  blue  water.  A  furlong  from  the  shore  two  little 
steamers  were  anchored  side  by  side.  Memorable  and 
historic  vessels  both !  One  was  the  Queen  Victoria,  of 
which  more  anon.  The  other  was  the  Gwendolen,  or  Gwen 
for  short,  an  insignificant  but  not  unworthy  part  of  the 
British  Navy.  Ere  long  she  was  destined,  in  the  great  war, 
to  make  her  own  little  bit  of  history. 

A  learned  professor,  discussing  some  years  ago  the  dire 
effects  of  a  European  war  on  the  lower  races,  drew  a  tragic 
picture  of  a  fratricidal  combat  on  Lake  Nyasa  between  the 
German  and  British  gunboats,  while  crowds  of  astonished 
heathen  lined  the  shore.  '  It  did  not  happen  as  predicted. 
A  message  tingled  up  the  wire  to  the  lake,  the  commander 


24  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


of  the  Gwen  dashed  out,  caught  the  Germans  napping  at 
New  Langenburg,  politely  inlormed  them  of  certain  im- 
portant changes  in  Europe,  and  invited  them  to  accept  of 
British  hospitah"ty. 

Livingstone,  who  discovered  Lake  Nyasa,  took  it  to  be 
100  miles  in  length;  the  pioneers  of  t^e  Ilala  found  its 
length  to  be  350  miles  with  an  average  breadth  of  40. 
It  is  in  reality  a  gigantic  trench  running  north  and  south 
among  the  mountains.  Its  surface  is  1500  feet  above  sea- 
level,  and  the  mountains  on  either  side  rise  to  heights  varying 
from  5000  to  10,000  feet.  A  triangular  promontory  splits 
the  south  end  of  the  lake  into  two  arms,  up  the  easternmost 
of  which  we  now  sailed  in  the  Queen.  Near  Cape  Maclear 
we  put  in  for  the  night  at  Monkey  Bay,  a  lovely  spot,  com- 
pletely land-locked  and  surrounded  by  steep,  wooded  hills 
on  which  troops  of  great  baboons  leaped  and  barked.  On 
the  rocks  around  the  bay  monstrous  crocodiles  lay  basking 
in  the  evening  sun.  At  the  blast  of  the  steamer's  whistle 
they  sliddered  down  loathsomely  into  the  water. 

Next  day,  as  we  zigzagged  across  the  lake,  first  to  the 
east  side  at  Mtengula  and  then  to  the  west  at  Kotakota,  we 
had  full  experience  of  the  powers  and  qualities  of  the  Queen. 
Like  another  and  more  famous  lake  in  Galilee,  which  also 
lies  deep  among  the  hills,  Lake  Nyasa  is  liable  to  sudden 
storms  through  the  downward  sweep  of  the  winds,  and  the 
Queen  seems  constructed  to  make  the  most  of  them.  She 
will  execute  more  squeamish  manoeuvres  in  five  minutes 
than  any  respectable  boat  would  go  through  in  an  hour. 
The  proud  voyager  over  3000  leagues  of  ocean  is  laid  low, 
and  that  on  a  mere  inland  lake.  In  this  painful  and 
humiliating  moment,  te  skipper,  most  obliging  of  mortals, 
comes  to  the  rescue.  He  also  bites  the  deck,  so  to  speak, 
and  puts  us  again  in  countenance.  At  once  the  whole 
wretched  affair  takes  on  the  hue  of  a  grand  adventure,  and 
we  fancy  ourselves  telling  the  tale  in  after  days.  Never 
was  such  a  tossing  !  Even  the  captain  himself  was  dead 
sick." 

Cockroaches  of  amazing  agility  riot  through  the  cabins, 
startled  by  the  intrusion  of  a  passenger.    Sleep  anywhere 


FROM  THE  DECK  OF  THE  QUEEN  25 


but  on  deck  is  only  to  be  thought  of  with  a  shudder.  Not 
that  there  is  danger  of  bloodshed,  the  enemy's  taste  fortu- 
nately lying  in  the  direction  of  bootleather  and  hats,  but 
what  bed-fellows  !  A  seasoned  traveller,  with  nerves  attuned 
to  snakes  and  all  manner  of  tropical  creeping  things,  con- 
fessed in  the  morning  that  he  had  been  somewhat  mobbed, 
that  his  nose,  in  fact,  a  somewhat  prominent  member,  had 
been  all  night  long  the  cent'  e  of  a  delirious  merry-go-round. 
Had  Dante  lived  in  the  age  of  Kultur  he  might  well  have 
fixed  the  lowest  gulf  of  his  Inferno  in  the  cabin  of  the  Queen^ 
and  there,  among  the  cockroaches,  have  imprisoned  the 
Lord  of  all  the  Huns,  and  doomed  him,  like  the  Flying 
Dutchman,  to  toss  for  ever  on  the  restless  bosom  of  the 
lake. 

Half-way  up  the  western  shore  of  the  Lake  Nyasa,  the 
hills  sweep  back  in  a  semi-circle,  leaving  a  wide  flat  which 
is  the  home  of  the  Atonga.  A  short  spit  of  land  juts  out 
into  the  water,  ending  in  a  blunt,  rocky  headland.  A  line 
of  buildings  appears  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge.  Here,  at 
Bandawe,  is  the  mother  station  of  the  Livingstonia  Mission, 
for  the  original  settlement  at  Cape  Maclear  had  soon  to  be 
abandoned,  when  its  deadly  climate  began  to  take  a  heavy 
toll  of  precious  lives. 

Livingstone,  when  he  first  explored  the  lake,  landed  on 
the  sandy  beach  at  Bandawe,  and  natives  are  still  alive 
who  remember  seeing  him.  At  the  time  of  the  Livingstone 
centenary,  a  meeting  was  held  near  the  spot.  It  was  a 
changed  scene,  for  first  the  Gospel  and  then  the  British 
Government  had  come,  and  worked  wonders  in  the  land. 
Thousands  of  the  people  now  shared  the  great  explorer's 
faith.  Him  they  called  Chiswa-msangu,  the  Channel- 
cutter,  a  name  they  give  to  the  first  rains  which  clear  the 
water-courses  for  the  floods  that  follow.  At  the  meeting 
the  old  men  told  their  reminiscences,  how  when  he  washed 
his  head  and  face  with  soap,  and  the  white  lather  filled  his 
hair,  they  cried  in  horror,  The  white  spirit  is  taking  his 
brains  out,"  and  fled  to  the  bush.  The  house  rocked  with 
laughter  at  the  simplicity  of  the  fathers.  Then  old 
Vyamba,  in  more  serious  vein,  witnessed  to  the  glorious 


26 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


transformation  of  their  blood-stained  country.  He  told 
how,  when  the  Mission  came,  Dr.  Laws  had  said,  Yes, 
war  is  thick  enough  about  you,  but  it  will  not  last  for  ever. 
Pray  to  God  about  it,  and  see  what  happens." 

"  The  white  man  lies,"  we  said. 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  it  is  not  lies." 
And  now,"  concluded  Vyamba,  with  a  thrill  that  went 
through  his  audience,  "  look  at  us  to-day.     My  heart 
warms.    Jesus  has  been  the  life  of  us." 

But  there  is  ever  a  fly  in  the  ointment  for  those  who  care 
to  look  for  it.  Livingstone  records  to  the  credit  of  the 
people  that,  having  left  some  of  his  goods  at  Bandaw6,  he 
found  them  all  safe  on  his  return.  This  fact  being 
mentioned  by  way  of  compliment,  one  dusky  old  lady 
was  not  a  little  nettled.  With  a  toss  of  her  head  she 
inquired  indignantly,  "  And  who  did  he  think  would  have 
stolen  them  ? " 


CHAPTER  VI. 


LAKE  SHORE  FOLKS. 

The  Scots  mission  at  Bandaw6  is  the  centre  of  the  life  of 
the  Atonga.  Less  than  half  a  century  ago  the  dwellers 
on  the  lake  shore  were  on  the  brink  of  extermination  in  con- 
sequence of  the  bloody  raids  of  the  hillmen.  Then  it  was 
that  the  Mission,  planted  in  the  nick  of  time,  became  their 
city  of  refuge.  As  an  old  man  said,  "We  hoed  our  gardens 
in  the  strength  of  Dr.  Laws 

The  Mission  buildings  are  unpretentious  in  the  extreme. 
A  mseu^  or  hoed  road,  runs  up  from  the  bay  through  a 
grove  of  trees.  On  reaching  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  it 
passes  along  a  line  of  low,  brick  buildings,  dignified  by  the 
names  of  the  hospital,  school,  doctor's  house,  office,  and 
residence  of  the  ordained  missionary.  Facing  these  are 
the  church  and  the  boys'  boarding-house. 

The  boarder  boys  are  a  lively  lot,  and  a  handful,"  as 
the  Scots  say,  to  those  in  charge  of  them.  A  visitor  was 
rash  enough,  after  the  first  Sunday  service,  to  praise  the 
heartiness  of  their  singing,  omitting  all  reference  to  its 
flatness,  whereupon  they  retired  with  delighted  grins,  and 
spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  roaring  their  way  clear  through 
the  hymn-book.  It  was  a  memorable  experience  when  the 
sound  of  the  bagpipes  fell  for  the  first  time  on  their 
astonished  ears.  Dr.  Wilson,  improving  on  the  methods 
of  his  illustrious  grandfather,  had  brought  out  his  bagpipes, 
as  well  as  his  Bible  and  medicine  chest.  One  evening, 
soon  after  our  arrival,  he  went  out  into  the  moonlight  and 
began  to  tune  up.  It  was  the  first  time  the  drone  of  the 
pipes  had  ever  been  heard  in  these  parts.  The  boarder 
boys  came  tumbling  out  like  Tam  o'  Shanter's  witches. 

(27) 


28  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


"  Chikoko,  it's  a  wild  beast ! "  exclaimed  a  teacher  who  was 
standing  near,  and  the  boys  vanished  quicker  than  they 
had  come.  In  a  little  while  they  were  reassured,  and 
came  out  again.  They  pressed  as  close  about  the  piper  as 
did  the  children  of  Hamelin,  and  with  open  mouths  drank 
in  the  strains.  As  their  enthusiasm  rose,  one  rushed  ofif 
for  a  native  drum  on  which  he  hammered  vigorously  by 
way  of  accompaniment.  It  was  the  one  touch  needed  to 
complete  the  harmony.  Those  who  cannot  take  the 
bagpipes  raw  are  recommended  to  try  them  mixed  with 
the  rumble  of  an  African  drum. 

No  impression  of  Bandaw6  would  be  complete  without 
a  visit  to  the  little  graveyard  below  the  station.  Deeply 
overshadowed  in  the  grove  that  runs  down  to  the  lake  is 
a  double  row  of  graves  of  missionaries,  with  some  others, 
all  of  whom  died  young.  There  sleep  Bain  and  Sutherland, 
the  latter  buried  at  midnight  in  a  grave  into  which  the 
loose  sand  continually  subsided.  Next  morning  Dr.  Elmslie, 
seventy  miles  off  in  the  hills,  waking  from  a  dream,  said, 
"  Sutherland  is  dead,  and  buried  in  a  grave  with  the  sand 
slipping  in  on  both  sides  ".  So  tense  was  the  feeling  in 
those  early  days,  and  so  mysterious  the  sympathy  among 
the  little  band  of  pioneers,  isolated  in  the  heart  of 
heathenism.  There,  too,  is  the  grave  of  wee  Donald 
McMinn,  a  true  missionary,  doubtless  heaven-sent  on  some 
bright  errand  of  his  own,  fulfilled  in  three  short  months, 
and  now  he  sleeps  beside  his  mother.  They  all  died 
young,  and,  in  dying,  laid  a  deep  and  enduring  foundation 
for  other  hands  to  build  on. 

It  was  Saturday  when  we  reached  Bandawe,  and  next 
day  one  had  the  novel  experience,  often  repeated  after- 
wards, of  addressing  a  native  congregation  through  an 
interpreter.  It  is  at  first  disconcerting  to  pause  at  the  end 
of  every  sentence,  listen  to  another  man  uttering  a  jargon 
of  sound,  and  be  ready  when  he  stops  to  continue  one's 
discourse.  In  time  it  comes  easier,  and  probably  the 
translator  has  always  the  worst  of  it. 

The  church  is  an  exceedingly  plain,  square,  low-roofed 
brick  building  with  a  short  tower  in  front,  which  is  the 


LAKE  SHORE  FOLKS 


29 


haunt  of  innumerable  bats.  Inside  the  church  there  are  no 
pews,  but  the  floor  rises  gently  towards  the  three  sides  in 
the  fashion  of  an  amphitheatre,  by  successive  tiers  of  brick. 
On  these  low  galleries  the  congregation  sit,  the  men  to  the 
right,  the  women  to  the  left,  the  boarder  boys  in  front  and 
the  mothers  with  babies  at  the  back.  The  pulpit  is  a  solid 
square  rostrum  of  brick,  with  no  railing  or  adornment  of 
any  kind  beyond  a  table  and  chair.  The  praise  is  led  by  a 
native  precentor  with  the  aid  of  a  small  organ.  The  women, 
to  all  appearance,  are  the  most  backward  portion  of  the 
audience.  Many  of  the  hymns  they  are  unable  to  join  in, 
but  when  an  old  favourite  comes  they  make  ample  amends 
for  their  previous  silence.  Their  singing  would  delight  an 
Auld  Licht  congregation  by  its  patriarchal  slowness.  The 
precentor  beats  time  with  exaggerated  energy,  the  men 
shout  and  glare  scornfully  across  the  church,  but  the  women, 
having  found  a  good  thing,  have  no  notion  of  letting  it  go. 
Thoroughly  enjoying  themselves,  and  unconscious  of  any 
fault,  they  hold  on  lovingly  to  each  note,  and  after  the  men 
have  finished  the  verse,  they  come  leisurely  wandering  along 
the  last  line. 

In  the  afternoon  we  walked  a  mile  down  the  lake 
shore,  through  loose,  burning  sand  and  clumps  of  long 
grass,  to  a  populous  village  where  a  service  was  held  in  the 
open  air.  Several  hundred  people  gathered  in  a  clearing 
under  some  shady  trees.  On  the  speaker's  right  sat  the 
chief  in  a  deck-chair,  while  near  him  a  group  of  the  village 
fathers  squatted  around  his  uncle,  a  picturesque  old  heathen 
in  a  red  Turkish  cap  and  a  faded  Paisley  shawl.  The  chief, 
a  fine-looking  young  fellow,  led  in  the  opening  prayer,  a 
junior  missionary  gave  a  brief  address,  evidently  in  a  some- 
what limited  vocabulary,  and  then  his  senior  colleague  set 
to  work.  For  a  good  half-hour  on  that  stifling  afternoon 
he  discoursed  with  all  the  volubility  and  gesture  of  a  native, 
pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  centre  of  the  clearing,  and  throw- 
ing his  sentences  to  this  side  and  that.  He  halted  in  front 
of  the  elders  squatting  on  the  ground,  bent  forward  till  his 
face  was  on  a  level  with  theirs,  and  hurled  his  words  at  them. 
"  In  the  old  war  days,  when  danger  threatened,  where 


30 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


did  you  go?"  He  paused,  waiting  a  reply.  "Did  you 
stay  outside  the  stockade  ?  " 

"  Ee-ai,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  old  men  with  earnestness. 
The  word  had  a  ridiculously  familiar  sound,  but  on  the  lips 
of  an  African  it  is  an  emphatic  negative. 

The  speaker  poured  on  again,  urging  his  hearers  to  seek 
a  refuge  for  their  souls  in  God.  The  sermon  ended,  the 
preacher  called  on  an  old  woman  to  lead  the  congregation 
in  prayer.  She  rose  from  the  middle  of  the  women's  group 
on  the  left,  a  thin  and  withered  form,  clad  in  a  single  strip 
of  calico,  covered  her  eyes  with  her  left  hand,  laid  her  right 
arm  across  her  shrunken  breast  and  pra)  ed  with  quiet 
reverence  and  decorum. 

As  we  sauntered  home  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  we  were 
surrounded  and  followed  by  excited  groups  of  youngsters, 
eager  to  inspect  the  white  strangers,  but  at  last,  near  the 
Mission  station,  they  were  dispersed  by  a  sudden,  good- 
humoured  charge  of  the  boarder  boys  who  resented  this 
invasion  of  their  domain.  A  quiet  hour  in  the  house  with  a 
little  company,  thankful  to  worship  God  in  their  own  tongue, 
and  drawn  heart  to  heart  by  a  sense  of  exile,  closed  the 
day. 

Meantime  the  activities  of  the  Bandawe  Church  had  ex- 
tended to  120  villages  of  the  Atonga,  where  services  were 
conducted  by  native  elders  and  preachers.  Every  month 
the  worthy  session  clerk,  Sam  Kauti,  draws  up  his  pro- 
gramme, covering  ten  or  twelve  districts  of  a  dozen  villages 
or  thereby,  for  each  of  which  he  must  provide  a  weekly 
preacher.  The  work  of  this  one  station  is  a  great  organisa- 
tion which  few  session  clerks  at  home  would  care  to  under- 
take, and  fewer  congregations  would  have  the  resources  to 
carry  on.  But  Sam  is  one  of  those  fine  fellows,  sensible, 
straight,  and  steadfast,  whom  one  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing at  various  Mission  centres — men  who  are  the  mission- 
ary's right  hand,  true  pillars  of  the  kirk  and  leaders  of  their 
people.  Said  a  man  who  had  lived  twenty  years  among 
the  Atonga  and  was  leaving  them  with  a  heavy  heart,  "Go 
where  I  will,  I  shall  never  find,  in  all  the  world,  another 
friend  like  Sam 


LAKE  SHORE  FOLKS 


31 


The  lake  shore  folks  are  a  branch  of  the  great  Bantu 
family  which,  though  far  scattered  in  Africa  from  the  Cape 
to  the  Equator,  still  retain,  throughout  all  their  various 
tribes  and  dialects,  a  strong  family  resemblance  in  language 
and  custom.  Their  skin  is  not  black,  but  copper-coloured, 
and  there  is  a  pleasing  variety  of  feature.  The  typical 
picture  of  the  negro  with  thick  lips  and  flat  nose  is  as  great 
a  caricature  of  the  African  as  the  typical  John  Bull  is  of  the 
Englishman,  or  red-haired  Sandy  of  the  Scot.  Many  of  the 
children  and  young  people,  with  their  shapely  heads,  their 
finely  moulded  arms  and  shoulders,  and  their  soft,  glossy 
skin,  are  distinctly  attractive  in  appearance. 

Among  the  women  bracelets  and  anklets  of  brass  and 
copper  wire  are  commonly  worn,  while  the  upper  lip,  the 
ears,  and  the  left  nostril  are  pierced  to  admit  ornaments, 
sometimes  of  prodigious  size  and  weight.  Every  variety  of 
dress  is  to  be  seen,  from  the  scanty  garb  of  the  Wankond6 
at  the  north  end  of  the  lake,  whose  women  wear  a  mere 
loin  cloth,  to  the  gay  attire  of  the  girls  in  the  mining  towns 
of  Rhodesia,  all  complete  from  glaring  yellow  shoes  to 
gorgeous  picture  hat.  The  Atonga  women  affect  a  medium 
style,  their  dress  consisting  of  two  yards  of  calico  wound 
round  the  body  from  under  the  armpits  to  below  the  knee, 
and  tied  in  a  knot  over  the  breasts.  This  knot  they  con- 
tinually tighten  and  rearrange,  with  the  same  feminine  in- 
stinct that  prompts  the  graceful  little  pats  and  touches 
of  their  more  elegant  sisters  at  home.  In  Bandawe  the 
young  girls  were  flaunting,  as  the  very  latest  fashion,  a 
red  calico  sash  with  a  white  cross  in  the  middle  of  the 
back. 

So  much  has  been  written  by  fastidious  whites  about  the 
offensive  odour  of  the  African,  that  one  may  perhaps  be 
pardoned  a  word  on  an  unsavoury  subject.  I  have  travelled 
many  a  hot  day  in  the  line  of  carriers,  sat  with  them  round 
the  camp  fire,  slept  with  them  twelve  in  a  hut,  and  have 
found  the  odour  often  imperceptible  and  never  unbearable. 
There  is,  moreover,  another  side  to  the  question  which  is 
rarely  alluded  to.  Bishop  Butler  warns  us  that  we  differ 
from  other  people  as  much  as  they  differ  from  us,  and  the 


32  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


truth  has  an  application  which  the  learned  Bishop  little 
dreamed  of.  To  be  plain,  the  fastidious  white  man  is 
as  offensively  odorous  to  the  nostrils  of  the  native  as  the 
native  is  to  the  white.  "  Ugh ! "  they  say  in  the  village, 
when  the  house-boy  comes  home,  ''you  smell  of  the 
Mzungu  (white  manj."  It  is  the  old  story  of  the  kettle 
and  the  pot. 

The  lake  shore  people  are  scrupulous  about  their  morning 
bath.  The  men  go  down  first,  and  when  they  have  finished 
the  women  follow.  All  are  expert  swimmers,  and  the  de- 
light with  which  they  splash  in  the  water  is  a  sight  to  see. 
A  native  preacher,  pressing  on  his  hearers  the  need  of  inward 
cleansing,  challenged  them,  "  What  would  you  think  of  the 
dirty  fellow  who  did  not  go  to  the  lake  every  morn- 
ing for  his  bath  ?  "  One  smiled  to  think  that  there  are  lew 
congregations  of  whites  to  whom  this  would  be  a  really 
effective  appeal. 

Life  in  the  villages  is  very  simple.  A  clearing  is  made 
in  the  forest  by  cutting  down  the  trees  three  or  four  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  the  brushwood  is  burned  to  destroy 
the  grass  and  fertilise  the  ground  for  the  village  gardens. 
Here  the  community  settle,  build  their  huts  and  cultivate 
the  clearing  for  two  or  three  years.  When  the  gardens 
begin  to  get  overgrown  and  the  minute  tenantry  of  the  huts 
become  unbearably  numerous,  a  migration  is  made  and  the 
whole  process  of  clearing,  building  and  cultivating  starts 
anew.  By  this  most  wasteful  system  of  cultivation  whole 
stretches  of  country  are  denuded  of  everything  worthy  of 
the  name  of  timber,  although  it  is  marvellous  how  soon  the 
forest  resumes  its  sway  over  the  deserted  garden.  The 
native  has,  of  course,  no  use  for  heavy  timber,  except  an 
occasional  log  for  his  canoe,  and  even  the  canoes,  to  judge 
by  their  appearance,  seem  to  have  been  handed  down  from 
prehistoric  ages. 

The  fisherman's  life  on  the  lake  is  not  without  its  perils, 
not  only  from  sudden  storms  but  also  from  the  stealthy 
attack  of  the  crocodile  and  the  furious  charge  of  the  hippo. 
Natives  of  both  sexes  have  an  extraordinary  capacity  for 
enduring  pain.    A  woman  with  her  arm  torn  off  by  a 


LAKE  SHORE  FOLKS 


33 


crocodile  walked  unaided  to  the  Mission  hospital,  and  sat 
down  among  the  patients  without  a  word  to  await  her  turn 
to  be  attended  to.  A  Bandaw6  fisherman  had  an  almost 
incredible  experience.  A  crocodile  seized  him  by  the  arm 
and  dragged  him  down  into  deep  water.  These  brutes 
never  worry  their  victims,  but  grimly  hold  them  under  till 
they  are  drowned.  The  man  was  an  expert  swimmer,  and 
he  held  his  breath  till  the  crocodile  had  to  rise  to  the  sur- 
face to  breathe.  Man  and  brute  drew  a  long  breath  and 
went  down  again  together.  Another  long,  grim  struggle 
and  up  they  came  once  more.  On  being  dragged  down  the 
third  time  a  sudden  inspiration  flashed  through  the  mind  of 
the  fisherman.  As  he  expressed  it  afterwards,  "  God  said 
to  me,  *  Bite  it  on  the  nose ' Swiftly  twisting  round  he 
fixed  his  teeth  fiercely  in  the  brute's  nose.  This  sudden 
attack  caused  the  crocodile  to  relax  its  grip,  and  before 
it  could  recover  the  intrepid  fisherman  was  safe  on 
shore. 

One  cannot  be  long  among  this  primitive  people  without 
feeling  that  they  have  their  own  vivid  human  interests  and 
their  own  serious  thoughts  about  life,  however  much  these 
may  differ  from  our  ways  of  thinking.  Mingled  with  gross 
superstition  there  is  much  shrewd  sense  and  sound  moral 
teaching.  As  an  exposition  of  the  terrors  of  a  guilty  con- 
science what  could  be  finer  than  their  parable  of  the  wild 
beast  that  committed  a  crime  and  fled  through  the  forest. 
Fearing  it  was  pursued  it  stopped  and  listened.  The  white 
ants  were  working  busily  in  the  grass  with  a  steady  swish, 
swish.  "  It  is  the  pursuers,"  cried  the  fugitive,  and  fled  on. 
Again  it  paused  and  listened,  and  again  it  fled,  and  so  con- 
tinued without  respite  till  it  sank  and  died. 

Such  legends  spring  out  of  a  deep  moral  seriousness 
which,  however  it  may  be  overlaid  by  blind  and  savage 
customs,  provides  a  soil  where  the  Gospel  can  take  root, 
and  that  the  Gospel  has  taken  root  among  the  lake  shore 
folks  is  manifest  at  a  glance.  The  very  faces  and  aspect  of 
their  women  have  undergone  a  change.  In  more  remote  and 
heathen  parts  of  the  country  it  is  pitiful  to  watch  how  the 
women,  as  one  passes  them  on  the  forest  path,  slink  into 

3 


34  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


the  grass  and  go  crouching  by  with  cowed  and  suspicious 
looks,  gently  beating  their  hands  together  as  if  to  deprecate 
the  stranger's  wrath.  Around  Bandawe  the  women  pass 
with  bright  smiles  and  a  cheery  salutation  of  Mona  da  " 
(Good  morning,  father),  to  which  one  cannot  but  respond 
with  a  "  Good  morning,  mama,"  both  salutations  being 
uttered  with  complete  indifference  as  to  the  time  of  day. 

One  of  the  brightest  souls  I  ever  met  was  old  Rachel 
Mgulayora.  An  interesting  story  was  told  of  her  devotion. 
When  Bandawd  church  was  being  built  the  women  of  the 
Atonga  promised  a  month's  work  in  treading  clay  and 
carrying  bricks.  Rachel,  who  was  unwell,  came  and  said, 
I  am  not  able  to  give  a  month's  work,  but  I  will  give  six 
hens".  For  her  it  was  a  generous  gift,  and  was  gratefully 
accepted.  Some  time  after  she  came  again  with  a  two- 
shilling  piece  which  she  offered. 

Oh,  but  you  cannot  afford  this,"  said  the  missionary ; 
"  you  are  poor  and  you  have  given  already." 

But  Rachel  insisted,  I  got  it  in  a  present,"  she  explained, 
"and  I  want  it  to  go  to  the  building  of  the  church". 

A  third  time  the  faithful  creature  appeared  with  beaming 
face.  "  I  am  better  now,"  she  said,  "  and  I  want  to  give 
my  month's  work."  She  is  a  type  of  those  older  Christian 
women  of  Nyasaland  who  have  experienced  the  difference 
between  a  heathen  and  a  Christian  land.  Their  early  years 
were  a  long,  hideous  nightmare,  through  dread  of  the  slave 
raider  and  the  Ngoni  warrior.  Livingstone,  passing  through 
their  country,  cried  out  in  anguish,  "  Blood,  blood,  every- 
where blood,"  and  declared  that  the  very  crocodiles  in  their 
streams  were  glutted  with  human  flesh.  Now  they  have 
literally  passed  from  death  to  life,  and  they  feel  that  there 
is  nothing  too  good  to  do  to  show  their  gratitude. 

Frail  and  nearly  blind,  old  Rachel  came  to  pay  her  re- 
spects. Her  arms  were  deeply  scored  with  tribal  marks, 
and  a  white  ornament  was  inserted  in  her  upper  lip.  As 
she  squatted  on  the  gravel  path  in  front  of  the  house,  little 
white  Margaret  stood  beside  her,  and  the  two  made  a  pretty 
picture  together.  Between  them  they  had  but  one  word  in 
common.    It  was  pawemi  (good-bye).     The  little  maid, 


LAKE  SHORE  FOLKS 


35 


putting  her  mouth  close  to  Rachel's  ear,  lisped,  Pavem^". 
Instantly  the  old  face  lit  up  with  a  wonderful  smile.  She 
made  as  if  she  would  have  caught  the  child  in  her  arms, 
"  Eh,  pawem^\ "  she  exclaimed,  with  the  fervour  and  delight 
of  the  dearest  old  grannie  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


A  TRIP  TO  NGONILAND, 

No  man  is  entitled  to  be  called  an  experienced  traveller 
who  has  not  had  experience  of  travelling  by  machila.  The 
recipe  for  a  machila  is  as  follows :  a  stout  bamboo  pole,  with 
a  hammock  slung  below  it,  and  a  team  of  a  dozen  high-step- 
ping, quick-trotting  natives  to  shoulder  the  pole,  two  at  a 
time.  It  is  true  that  the  Portuguese  down  on  the  coast  use 
four  carriers  at  a  time,  who  jiggle  along  with  short,  mincing, 
irregular  steps,  in  the  most  ridiculous  and  effeminate  way. 
But  this  is  a  refinement  of  luxury  not  to  be  looked  for  in 
the  interior,  any  more  than  the  quiet  amble  of  a  lady's  pony 
is  to  be  expected  of  a  broncho.  The  raw  native,  who  sees 
the  Portuguese  jelly-fish  trot  for  the  first  time,  is  convulsed 
with  inextinguishable  laughter,  and,  on  his  return  home, 
will  entertain  his  village  to  a  daily  pantomime. 

No  vehicle  is  more  deceptive  in  appearance  than  the 
machila.  It  looks  positively  inviting,  not  to  say  luxurious, 
as  it  waits  at  the  door.  You  survey  it  from  the  veranda 
with  the  most  pleasing  anticipations,  not  unmingled  with 
shame,  while  friendly  hands  are  putting  into  it  a  couple  of 
cushions,  an  umbrella,  camera,  water-bottle,  half  a  dozen 
oranges,  and,  with  a  fine  touch  of  irony,  a  book  to  read  by 
the  way.  With  discreet  smiles  they  invite  you  to  enter. 
Here  is  the  beginning  of  trouble,  for  you  are  not  sure  which 
end  goes  in  first.  After  one  or  two  preliminary  attempts 
you  suddenly  and  ignominiously  roll  in,  to  find  that  the 
camera,  water-bottle,  oranges,  and  the  rest,  yielding  to  the 
law  of  gravitation,  are  embedded  in  the  most  uncomfortable 
and  inaccessible  places.  Before  you  can  bestow  the  cargo 
the  two  carriers  give  a  grunt  and  start  off  at  a  sharp  trot. 

(36) 


A  TRIP  TO  NGONILAND 


37 


It  may  be  they  are  fresh,  and  wish  to  show  their  paces,  but 
the  result  is  an  extraordinary  heaving  and  jolting,  with  a 
side  swing  of  the  most  sickening  sort.  After  five  minutes 
one  feels  as  if  every  bone  were  shaken  out  of  joint,  the 
whole  inner  man  an  indistinguishable  jelly,  and  the  end 
imminent. 

Nor  is  this  all.  Every  now  and  then  the  carriers  change, 
heaving  the  passenger  from  one  to  another  like  a  sack  of 
flour.  They  plough  into  the  long  grass,  and  if  there  is  dew 
on  it  the  canvas  gets  soaked  and  tightens  till  one's  nose  is 
flat  against  the  pole.  Vicious  grass  ticks  and  other  insects 
are  sprinkled  plentifully  about.  If  the  path  winds  through 
the  forest  the  carriers  are  none  too  careful  of  one's  elbows, 
and  at  last  there  comes  an  agonising  moment  when  one 
fairly  runs  aground  on  the  stump  of  a  tree  and  feels  as  if 
split  asunder.  As  the  ship  strikes  square  on  the  end  of  her 
keel,  otherwise  called  the  spine,  that  horrible  shudder,  often 
read  about  but  now  most  acutely  felt,  runs  through  all  her 
timbers.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  proofs  of  the  adaptability 
of  human  nature  that  man  is  able,  in  time,  to  grow  used  to 
a  machila. 

It  was  on  a  trip  to  Ngoniland  that  I  had  my  first  and 
last  experience  of  machila  travelling.  Finding  there  was 
a  week  to  wait  for  the  meeting  of  the  Mission  Council  at 
Bandawe,  I  hastily  arranged  the  journey,  as  I  was  likely  to 
have  no  other  opportunity  of  seeing  the  ancient  enemies  of 
the  Atonga  in  their  native  wilds.  Of  the  Atonga  boys  who 
were  my  companions  on  this  ulendo,  I  have  the  pleasantest 
memory.  First,  I  recall  with  real  gratitude  my  faithful 
Jumari,  who  not  only  went  with  me  on  this  trip  but  followed 
me  in  all  my  wanderings  as  cook  and  capitao.  He  knew 
less  than  a  dozen  words  of  English,  and  I  knew  as  little  of 
Chitonga,  but  we  got  on  wonderfully  well,  and  a  more  loyal 
attendant  no  one  could  hope  to  meet.  He  traversed  800 
miles  of  forest  and  mountain,  every  step  of  the  way  on  foot, 
and  carried  a  paraffin  lamp  in  his  hand  which  he  brought  in 
at  the  end  of  the  journey  with  the  glass  still  unbroken. 
Then  one  thinks  of  Hanok,  always  in  front  with  the  pro- 
vision basket  on  his  head,  a  strange  figure,  clad  in  tatters 


38 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


that  had  once  been  a  jacket,  and  having  the  general  appear- 
ance of  a  tramp  rag  and  china  merchant.  One  thinks,  too, 
of  Simon  and  John,  a  decent  pair  who  carried  my  box 
between  them  on  a  pole,  and  of  big,  good-humoured  Farudi, 
one  of  the  machila  team  who  trotted  along  singing  an  end- 
less refrain  of  "  Wamama,  wamama  How  irresistibly- 
funny  it  seemed  to  hear  a  man  of  the  build  of  a  coal  heaver 
calling  in  that  childish  way  on  his  mother.  Then  there  was 
Matekenya,  an  Ethiopian  in  faith  though  not  in  race,  with 
Marco  and  the  rest,  willing,  cheery  fellows  all.  I  had  no 
fault  to  find  with  them,  and  am  glad  to  remember  that  at 
the  end  of  the  journey  they  reported  me,  a  man  of  com- 
fort 

The  country  between  the  lake  and  Ngoniland  may  be 
divided  roughly  into  four  belts :  first,  the  shore  of  hot  sand 
and  coarse,  long  grass  ;  then  a  wide  flat  covered  with  dense 
forest  and  dambo  (swamp),  and  crossed  by  deep  streams 
swollen  at  the  close  of  the  rainy  season  ;  next,  the  ascent  of 
the  hills,  steep  and  wooded,  and  crowned  by  the  bare  sum- 
mit of  the  Vipya,  a  place  of  Scotch  mists  and  abrupt 
ravines  ;  last,  the  Ngoni  plateau,  an  open  cattle  country 
ringed  round  with  jagged  peaks. 

Leaving  Bendaw6  we  pushed  across  the  flat,  crossing 
with  difficulty  some  of  the  deeper  swamps,  and  late  in  the 
afternoon  reached  Vizara,  a  rubber  plantation  of  the  African 
Lakes  Corporation.  Early  next  morning,  all  unconscious 
of  what  awaited  us  on  the  Vipya,  I  strolled  leisurely  round 
the  plantation  and  viewed  with  interest  the  process  of  rubber 
collecting.  A  herring-bone  cut  is  made  in  the  bark  of  the 
tree,  down  which  the  milky  juice  trickles  into  a  metal  cup. 
Each  worker  goes  round  a  certain  number  of  trees  daily  to 
empty  and  reset  the  cups,  and  at  the  same  time  to  take  a 
thin  paring  off  the  side  of  the  cut  to  make  it  bleed  afresh. 
At  night  he  brings  in  a  pailful  of  juice,  which,  having  begun 
to  coagulate,  has  exactly  the  appearance  of  curds  and  whey. 
The  white  curd  is  lifted  out,  weighed,  rolled  into  sheets  and 
dried. 

Somewhat  late  in  the  morning  we  took  the  road  and 
turned  our  faces  to  the  hills.    We  pressed  forward  through 


A  TRIP  TO  NGONILAND  39 


dense  growth  and  soon  began  to  climb.  Here  the  machila 
was  useless,  owing  to  the  steepness  of  the  ascent.  On  and 
up  we  went,  our  path  the  dry  channel  of  a  stream  full  of 
stones  and  tripping  roots.  About  two  o'clock  we  stopped 
for  lunch  at  a  pool  which  appeared  to  consist  of  strong  soap- 
suds, several  cupfuls  of  which  1  was  fain  to  drink  under  the 
name  of  tea.  We  resumed  our  climbing,  on  and  up,  a 
veritable  Hill  of  Difficulty.  At  last  a  rocky  eminence  was 
reached,  where  a  break  in  the  trees  revealed,  beneath  and 
behind  us,  a  world  of  wooded  hills  and  valleys  with  the  blue 
lake  in  the  far  distance.  Liwonatonga^  the  spot  is  called, 
which  means  the  place  whence  you  see  the  land  of  the 
Atonga.  Thither  in  the  old  days  the  Ngoni  came  to  spy 
out  and  plan  their  bloody  raids.  Now,  here  was  I,  an  un- 
armed stranger,  travelling  pleasantly  to  Ngoniland  with  a 
handful  of  Atonga  carriers,  who  in  their  boyhood  had  fled  the 
Ngoni  terror,  but  had  now  no  cause  to  fear.  It  was  an  index 
of  the  change  that  has  passed  upon  the  land.  We  took 
barely  a  breathing  space  on  the  watchtower  rock.  The 
terrible  Vipya  still  rose  in  front  of  us,  and  must  be  crossed 
before  night,  for  on  that  exposed  upland  natives  have  been 
known  to  perish  of  cold.  Emerging  from  the  trees  we  saw 
the  bare,  rolling  summit  scored  with  ravines.  The  sun  had 
sunk  behind  it  and  the  mist  began  to  roll  in  threateningly. 
We  hurried  on,  Hanok  in  front,  as  usual,  making  the  pace 
in  great  style,  and  the  team  tailing  away  behind.  Before 
the  light  was  quite  gone  we  had  crossed  the  bare  summit 
and  entered  the  forest  again. 

Our  camping-ground  for  the  night  was  to  have  been  a 
certain  Mafutas,  a  place  it  was  never  our  fortune  to  see, 
though  we  sought  it  long  and  earnestly.  Our  trouble 
came  at  a  fork  in  the  path  where,  after  a  lively  debate,  we 
took  what  must  have  been  the  wrong  turn.  After  that  it 
was  hide-and-seek  through  forest,  streams  and  swamps. 
Fortunately  there  was  a  good  moon,  and  late  at  night  we 
struck  a  miserable  hut,  where  a  voice  from  within  gave 
information  which  appeared  to  satisfy  the  carriers  that  it 
was  useless  to  go  farther.  By  the  time  we  had  settled 
this,  and  the  weary  men  had  indicated  by  signs  that 


40 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Mafutas  was  somewhere  beyond  the  moon,  a  cheery  voice 
at  my  elbow  suddenly  said,  Mona  bwana  (Good  morning, 
sir).  It  was  the  owner  of  the  hut,  who,  of  course,  had  his 
first  sleep  well  over. 

Good  morning,"  I  replied,  and  burst  out  laughing  at 
the  absurdity  of  the  salutation.  "It  is  easy  for  you,  old 
man,  to  say  Good  morning,  but  we  have  not  been  in  bed 
yet." 

Nobody,  of  course,  understood,  but  the  laugh  went 
round  none  the  less  heartily.  In  a  wonderfully  short  time 
Jumari  had  a  fire  kindled,  and  a  decent  supper  well  in 
hand.  The  tent,  which  we  had  not  seen  since  afternoon, 
arrived,  after  much  coo-eeing,  trom  the  opposite  direction 
from  which  we  had  come,  and  things  looked  promising  for 
the  night.  As  I  opened  my  box  in  the  moonlight,  John 
and  Simon  hunkered  down  at  each  end,  curious  to  see  its 
contents.  I  picked  out  a  flashlight  and  presented  it 
towards  Simon.  He,  thinking  it  something  very  different, 
opened  his  mouth  to  its  widest,  and  when  the  flash  struck 
him,  lighting  up  the  great  expectant  cavern  of  his  throat, 
he  rolled  over  on  his  back.  John  laughed  immoderately  at 
his  fellow-apostle,  a  laugh  in  which  Simon,  to  do  him 
justice,  joined  heartily  as  soon  as  he  recovered. 

It  was  a  memorable  night.  Months  after,  in  a  far- 
distant  part  of  the  interior,  the  night  before  we  reached 
Livingstone's  grave,  we  had  a  similar  long  weary  trek  after 
sunset,  looking  for  a  village  that  seemed  infinitely  remote. 
Suddenly,  as  I  followed  Jumari  in  the  path,  he  turned,  and, 
with  a  grin  that  showed  his  white  teeth  gleaming  in  the 
moonlight,  he  said,  Ku  Mafutas.  He  too,  it  would  seem, 
treasured  the  memory  of  it. 

Next  morning  we  had  a  pleasant  run  through  woods 
heavily  festooned  with  grey  lichen,  four  to  six  feet  long, 
which  gave  the  trees  a  singularly  hoary  appearance.  Reach- 
ing the  edge  of  the  forest  we  looked  across  a  wide,  treeless 
flat,  dotted  with  enormous  ant-hills  and  occasional  rocky 
eminences,  and  encircled  to  the  north  and  west  by  rugged 
mountain-chains.  Near  the  middle  of  the  plain  Mt. 
Bwabwa  reared  its  bold  and  striking  form.    It  is  a  solid 


A  TRIP  TO  NGONILAND 


41 


rock,  with  grey,  scored  sides,  so  bare  as  to  appear  un- 
scalable. Connected  with  this  mountain  is  an  African 
legend  of  the  Tower  of  Babel.  In  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  they  say,  men  came  up  from  the  lake,  seeking  heaven 
among  the  hills.  Finding  heaven  was  higher  than  the  hills, 
they  climbed  Mt.  Bwabwa,  but  found  that  Mt.  Bwabwa 
was  not  heaven.  Then  they  set  to  work  to  build  a  lofty 
wooden  tower.  The  tower  rose  so  high  that  the  builders 
were  compelled  to  take  their  wives  and  their  food  up  with 
them,  and  still  they  built  on.  But,  as  they  built,  the  white 
ants  gnawed  the  wood  below,  and  the  tower  collapsed  and 
destroyed  them  all.  "  And,"  it  is  added  in  confirmation, 
"  their  bones  are  there  to  this  day." 

One  could  not  gaze  on  the  whole  scene  without  the 
deepest  interest.  Here  was  the  home  of  the  renowned 
Ngoni,  once  the  terror  of  the  country,  the  Huns  of 
Nyasaland,  but  now  the  sweet  singers  of  Central  Africa. 
The  very  war  song  they  sang,  when  they  sent  round  the 
fiery  cross  to  call  the  tribesmen  to  their  bloody  raids,  is 
now  wedded  to  Gospel  words  that  summon  sons  and 
brothers  to  the  banner  of  Christ.  We  had  already  passed 
groups  of  Ngoni  in  the  forest,  the  men  armed  with  their 
formidable  spears,  for  the  lions  had  been  troublesome  of 
late  and  had  killed  a  dozen  of  the  people.  Yet  as  one  en- 
countered these  brawny  warriors,  one  had  no  thought  of 
danger.  They  stood  aside  in  the  path  when  we  met,  and 
to  our  greeting  of  Timwonani  (We  see  you),  they  answered 
with  a  cheery  Yewo  (Here  we  are). 

From  the  rim  of  the  forest  the  roofs  of  the  Mission- 
station  at  Ekwendeni  were  visible  in  the  distance,  and  one 
eagerly  anticipated  meeting  there  with  Dr.  Elmslie.  The 
apostle  of  the  Ngoni,  that  truly  great  missionary,  has  done 
more  than  any  other  man  to  tame  these  wild  raiders  by  his 
upright  Christian  character,  his  medical  skill,  and,  not  least, 
his  irresistible  humour.  For  the  veteran,  in  spite  of  his 
grizzled  locks  and  long  years  of  service,  retains  a  spirit  of 
delicious  gaiety  that  sparkles  like  sunbeams  on  a  sword- 
blade. 

Having  crossed  the  fiat,  the  machila  team  put  on  a  final 


42 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


spurt,  and  dashed  up  to  the  door  in  a  style  calculated  to 
impress  the  Doctor  if  he  had  been  there.  Unfortunately, 
however,  he  was  from  home.  He  had  left  that  morning  to 
visit  a  remote  part  of  his  vast  parish,  intending  afterwards 
to  make  for  the  Council  at  Bandawe  by  another  route. 
In  this  awkward  fix,  with  no  interpreter  at  hand,  I  inquired 
for  msarnbisgi  (the  teacher),  and  was  conducted  to  the  school. 
The  ynsambisgi,  honest  fellow,  had  a  very  limited  English 
vocabulary,  but  he  indicated  that  there  was  a  Mandala  man 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  led  the  way  to  the  store. 
Suddenly  he  halted,  and,  with  painful  pauses,  jerked  out, 
"  Sir,  I  have  remember — he  not  here — he  bitten  by  buggies 
— and — seersly  ill  ".  It  sounded  absurd,  but  it  proved  to 
be  the  sober  fact.  The  Mandala  man  had  been  the  victim  of 
the  house  tick,  which  causes  a  serious,  recurrent  fever,  and 
he  was  just  recovering  after  several  relapses.  This,  how- 
ever, did  not  prevent  him  from  entertaining  me  with  the 
greatest  kindness.  Dr.  Elmslie  having  left  an  open  house, 
I  took  possession  without  ceremony,  and  slept  in  the 
comfortable  assurance  that  locked  doors  are  no  longer  a 
necessity  in  Ngoniland. 

In  the  morning  the  carriers  came  limping  to  the  door 
with  various  degrees  of  lameness,  headache,  and  internal 
pains.  I  had  intimated  overnight  my  intention  of  making 
for  Loudon,  two  days  to  the  south,  and  the  prospect  of  this 
big  extension  of  the  trip  had  produced  these  alarming 
symptoms.  On  my  announcing  that  I  had  abandoned  the 
idea,  and  would  return  straight  to  Bandawe,  there  was  an 
instant  change  of  countenance,  and  everybody  began  to  feel 
better. 

In  a  short  time,  with  a  rousing  machila  song,  the  team 
started  off  like  willing  horses,  with  their  heads  turned 
home.  Ere  night  we  were  over  the  Vipya  and  well  down 
through  the  hills  to  Tongaland.  We  passed  the  night  at 
the  village  of  Jamus  Mutambo.  Jamus  appeared  a  decent, 
garrulous  old  man,  and  when  he  had  paid  his  respects  he 
fell  into  talk  with  the  men.  One  of  the  machila  men, 
evidently  a  born  comic,  presuming  on  my  ignorance  of  the 
language,  commenced  a  highly  dramatic  narrative  in  which 


A  TRIP  TO  NGONILAND 


43 


he  was  plainly  taking  me  off.  Old  Jamus  and  the  villagers, 
after  certain  nervous  glances  in  my  direction,  assured 
themselves  it  was  quite  safe,  and  began  hugely  to  enjoy 
the  fun.  In  my  limited  vocabulary,  however,  I  chanced  to 
possess  a  most  useful  word,  chiiamaniy  the  imperative  of 
the  verb  to  shut  up,  and  this  imperative  I  now  threw 
over  my  shoulder  at  the  comic.  No  bubble  was  ever 
more  suddenly  pricked,  no  schoolboy  was  ever  more  com- 
pletely caught.  As  for  poor  old  Jamus,  he  was  utterly 
scandalised  at  his  own  breach  of  good  manners,  and  to 
hide  his  confusion  he  turned  on  the  unhappy  comic  with 
a  torrent  of  indignant  chitamanis  and  bundled  him  off 
the  ground. 

Next  morning  Jamus  was  early  at  my  tent  door  trying 
earnestly  to  explain  something.  The  only  words  intelligible 
to  me  were  "  Yesu  Christu,"  frequently  repeated.  Presently 
it  appeared  that  the  old  man  had  gathered  his  people  into 
the  little  mud-walled  school,  in  order  that  we  might  have 
morning  worship  together  ere  I  went  on  my  way.  I  con- 
fess it  was  not  without  deep  emotion  that  I  prayed  over 
those  simple  folks  in  words  that  were  unintelligible  to  them, 
but  not,  I  trust,  unheard  by  our  common  Father.  There- 
after I  was  able  to  pronounce  a  benediction  in  their  own 
tongue,  and  we  parted  feeling  that  in  spite  of  diversity  of 
race  we  were  in  spirit  near  akin  through  our  common  faith 
in  Christ. 

We  pushed  on  across  the  flat,  boring  through  great 
dambos  where  the  gigantic  reeds  and  grass,  meeting  high 
overhead,  made  us  look  diminutive  like  crawling  insects. 
By  noon  we  reached  the  Luweya,  flowing  deep  and  red 
after  the  rains.  We  crossed  one  by  one  in  a  crazy  canoe, 
and  for  his  twenty  voyages  the  ferryman  was  amply  paid 
with  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  salt.  Soon  the  blue  lake 
appeared  in  front,  shimmering  gloriously  in  the  sun.  The 
machila  men  quickened  their  pace  and  broke  into  a  song. 
On  reaching  the  shore  they  made  signs  that  they  were 
dying  for  a  plunge,  and,  on  permission  being  given,  they 
dashed  in  and  wallowed  with  delight.  A  fine  run  down  the 
lake  shore  brought  us  to  Bandaw6,  where  we  arrived  on 


44 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Saturday  night  as  the  boarder  boys  were  singing  their 
evening  hymn. 

There  we  parted,  and,  with  the  exception  of  Jumari,  I 
never  saw  one  of  these  Atonga  carriers  again,  but  I  hold 
them  in  grateful  remembrance.  These  men  had  travelled 
140  miles  in  five  days,  crossing  and  recrossing  twice  a 
range  of  mountains  6000  feet  in  height.  For  this  they 
received  the  magnificent  sum  of  2s.  4d.  each,  including  6d. 
for  food  money.  It  seems  a  rare  commentary  on  the  parrot- 
cry  about  the  greed  and  incurable  laziness  of  the  African. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


GOD'S  GARDEN  BY  THE  LAKE. 

The  immense  tract  of  country  to  the  west  of  Lake  Nyasa, 
which  is  covered  by  the  operations  of  the  Livingstonia 
Mission,  is  divided  into  provinces  rather  than  parishes. 
Each  European  station  is  the  centre  of  a  great  diocese  con- 
taining on  an  average  a  hundred  out-stations.  These  central 
stations,  with  the  exception  of  two  on  the  lake  shore,  are 
planted  at  strategic  points  along  the  summit  of  a  double 
mountain  range,  which,  like  a  horseshoe,  encircles  the 
Luangwa  valley.  On  the  Ngoni  plateau,  which  runs  north 
parallel  to  the  lake,  are  Kasungu  and  Tamanda,  Loudon, 
Ekwendeni,  and  the  Livingstonia  Institution.  As  the  range 
bends  westward  round  the  head  of  the  Luangwa  it  leaves 
an  extensive  flat  at  the  north  end  of  the  lake,  where  is  the 
station  of  Karonga.  The  other  half  of  the  horseshoe  is 
formed  by  the  great  plateau  of  North-Eastern  Rhodesia, 
which  forms  the  western  rim  of  the  Luangwa  basin,  as 
Ngoniland  is  the  eastern.  On  this  plateau  are  planted  the 
stations  of  Mwenzo,  Chinsali  and  Chitambo,  the  last  so 
remote  from  Nyasaland  that  few  of  the  workers  at  the  lake 
have  ever  seen  it. 

The  affairs  of  this  great  Mission  are  under  the  control  of 
a  Council  and  Presbytery  which  meet  annually.  The  former 
consists  of  the  missionaries  alone,  the  latter  includes  also 
native  elders,  in  the  proportion  of  one  to  every  three  hun- 
dred Church  members.  In  1914  the  meetings  were  held 
at  Bandaw6,  and  were  of  special  and  historic  interest  as 
being  the  occasion  of  the  ordination  of  the  first  native 

(45) 


46  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


pastors.  All  the  districts  were  represented  except  Chinsali 
and  Chitambo.  A  considerable  company  had  journeyed 
over  the  mountains  and  down  the  lake  from  Mwenzo. 
Great  bands  of  Ngoni  had  come  from  the  hills,  and  the 
Atonga  were  present  in  their  thousands.  Bandawe  was  like 
a  fair.  All  types  could  be  seen  mingling  in  the  crowds : 
high-cheeked  Ngoni  with  the  tiniest  of  beards,  emphasised 
in  some  cases  by  a  safety-pin  dangling  at  the  tip ;  dignified 
chiefs  in  loose  mantles,  teachers  in  white  duck  suits  and 
bare  feet,  boys  fresh  home  from  the  mines  with  yellow 
boots,  knickers,  slouch  hats  and  walking-sticks,  devout  old 
women  sparsely  clad,  young  girls  in  bright  calico,  with 
shoulders  of  polished  bronze,  mothers  with  babies  slung  on 
their  backs,  and  children  innumerable  darting  about  among 
the  throng. 

The  Council  met  every  morning  at  seven  o'clock  and  sat 
through  the  forenoon.  The  place  of  meeting  was  the  so- 
called  ofifice,  a  plain,  unfurnished  room,  with  brick  walls 
and  floor,  and  a  thatched  roof  above,  from  which  a  few  bats 
hung  head  downwards  with  exemplary  stillness  through  all 
the  sederunts.  Here  the  Council  assembled,  each  man 
bringing  his  own  camp-chair — something  under  a  score  of 
hard-headed,  strong-minded  Scotsmen,  nearly  half  of  them 
graduates  in  medicine.  Veterans  who  had  made  history  were 
associated  with  younger  colleagues  who  looked  capable  of 
making  it,  each  man  a  king  in  his  own  domain  and  a  shepherd 
of  the  people  in  all  the  fullness  of  Homer's  great  phrase. 
There  is  Laws,  the  father  of  the  Council  and  the  apostle  of 
Nyasaland,  in  aspect  a  stalwart  Scots  farmer,  quiet  and  ob- 
servant, with  the  fire  of  a  great  passion  burning  deep  in  his 
hazel  eyes.  Next  comes  Elmslie  of  Ngoniland,  a  man  of 
marvellous  vitality,  tall  and  erect,  with  impetuous  speech  and 
great  ringing  laugh.  Near  him  sits  Stuart,  his  understudy, 
like  the  two  veterans,  a  pawky  Aberdonian.  After  these 
come  a  trio  of  younger  medical  men,  Prentice  of  Kasungu, 
a  born  enthusiast  for  science  and  the  Gospel,  Innes  of  the 
Institution,  gentlest  of  men,  and  Chisholm  of  Mwenzo, 
prince  of  good  fellows,  and  my  best  of  comrades  by  many 
a  camp  fire.    One  might  set  down  a  catalogue  of  the 


GOD'S  GARDEN  BY  THE  LAKE 


47 


Council  as  complete  as  that  of  Homer  s  ships,  and  far  more 
worthy  of  remembrance. 

Every  afternoon  the  Presbytery  met  in  the  church. 
Extraordinarily  interesting  it  was  to  watch  the  proceedings, 
even  though  one  could  understand  but  little.  In  the  centre 
were  grouped  the  members  of  Council ;  on  the  low  brick 
galleries  round  sat  a  hundred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred  native 
elders,  who  took  their  full  share  in  the  discussions.  Dr. 
Innes,  as  moderator,  conducted  the  business  with  unfailing 
courtesy  and  patience.  There  was  practically  no  routine 
work.  Every  case  was  a  test  case  to  be  settled  on  first 
principles ;  every  subject  was  touched  at  its  roots.  Here 
were  men  laying  the  foundations  of  the  Christian  home  and 
Church  and  social  order  of  the  future,  with  nothing  to  guide 
them  but  the  Gospel  and  Christian  experience.  Precedents 
were  being  created,  not  followed.  Problems  arose  connected 
with  heathen  superstition,  Christian  marriage,  the  creed  and 
government  of  the  Church,  and  the  maintenance  of  the 
Christian  ministry. 

A  kirk  session  had  censured  a  woman  for  engaging  in  a 
devil  dance  to  cure  the  sick.  The  case  was  appealed,  and 
a  native  elder  subtly  argued  that  these  dances  did,  in  fact, 
cure  the  sick,  not  through  any  diabolical  agency,  but  through 
the  nervous  influence  on  the  patient — a  view  which  the 
medical  members  of  Council  were  not  prepared  to  reject. 
One  felt  that  casuistry  had  not  perished  with  the  Corinthian 
Greeks. 

Two  cases  had  been  referred  to  the  Presbytery,  in  both 
of  which  a  husband  sought  release  from  the  marriage  bond. 
The  one  because  his  wife  had  become  insane,  the  other  be- 
cause his  wife  had  been  smitten  with  leprosy.  Tragic  cases 
both,  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  sympathy  of  the 
native  elders  seemed  to  go  out  chiefly  to  the  husbands. 
One  and  another  expressed  the  view  that  the  Church  might 
surely  stretch  a  point  in  such  hard  cases  and  grant  a  divorce. 
A  more  highly  instructed  member  rose  to  a  point  of  order. 
The  Presbytery,  he  said,  had  already  settled  the  law  of 
marriage.  Upon  this  Dr.  Elmslie  started  to  his  feet.  "It 
is  not  the  Presbytery  that  has  made  the  law.    Tt  is  th^ 


48  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


law  of  Christ.  Mazghu  gha  Christu''  he  repeated  in  the 
native  speech,  with  a  passionate  vehemence  that  silenced 
opposition. 

The  Sunday  of  the  Council  was  a  high  day.  From  early 
morning  the  people  came  crowding  in.  Three  thousand 
packed  themselves  into  the  church,  nine-tenths  of  whom 
were  church  members,  as  was  evident  when  they  rose  and 
repeated  in  unison  the  Apostles'  creed.  Meantime  a  gather- 
ing of  double  the  size  met  in  the  open  air  under  a  shady 
grove  by  the  lake  shore.  Here,  during  one  of  the  prayers, 
a  sudden  panic  broke  out  among  the  people,  started  pro- 
bably by  some  ill-disposed  persons.  In  a  twinkling  hundreds 
had  vanished  into  the  bush.  Mothers  lost  their  children  in 
the  rush,  and  the  excitement  was  immense.  When  order 
was  restored  it  was  pathetic  to  see  women  with  babies  on 
their  backs  peering  through  the  grass  to  discover  if  they 
might  safely  venture  out.  It  revealed  the  fact  that  the 
nerves  of  these  Atonga  are  still  on  edge.  Every  grown  per- 
son among  them  remembers  the  time  when,  at  the  first 
alarm,  nothing  but  a  mad  plunge  into  the  bush  could  avert 
death  or  slavery. 

In  the  afternoon  the  church  service  was  abandoned  in 
view  of  the  panic,  and  the  whole  multitude,  estimated  at 
eight  to  ten  thousand,  assembled  at  the  grove  with  elders 
and  teachers  patrolling  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  Dr. 
Laws  preached  on  Christ  crucified.  Then  Peter  Tole,  re- 
puted the  finest  singer  in  Ngoniland,  sang  a  translation  he 
had  made  of  the  old  revival  hymn,  "  The  Christian's  Home 
in  Glory  ".  There  he  stood,  that  once  wild  Ngoni  warrior, 
among  the  assembled  thousands  of  his  ancient  foes,  and 
sang  of  the  sweet  fields  of  Eden  and  the  tree  of  life.  One 
could  not  but  reckon  it,  when  the  whole  situation  was 
taken  into  account,  as  one  of  the  most  thrilling  solos  ever 
sung. 

Monday  morning  saw  the  church  again  filled  for  the 
ordination  service.  Of  the  men  to  be  ordained  Isaiah  was 
a  Tonga,  Jonathan  and  Hezekiah  were  Ngoni.  All  three 
were  men  thoroughly  equipped  by  education  and  tested  by 
years  of  faithful  service.    As  they  knelt  down  together,  and 


ISAIAH,  JONATHAN  AND  HEZEKIAH 


[P.  48 


THE  KONDOWli  PLATEAU 


[P.  54 


PR.   LAWS  AT  HOME  [P.  56 


GOD'S  GARDEN  BY  THE  LAKE 


49 


Dr.  Laws  laid  his  hands  on  their  heads,  with  the  hands  of 
the  Presbytery,  and  ordained  them,  once  mortal  foes,  to  be 
brother  ministers  of  the  Gospel  of  Christ,  one  felt  it  was  a 
heart-moving  sight  and  worth  having  gone  half-way  round 
the  world  to  see. 

On  entering  the  vestry  at  the  close  of  the  service  we  found 
the  deacons  engaged  with  the  collection.  One  was  counting 
the  money,  another  was  counting  the  brass  armlets,  and  a 
third  was  counting  the  eggs.  Every  single  egg  he  lifted 
and  gravely  shook  it  at  his  ear.  "  Truly  a  worthy  son  of 
the  auld  Scots  Kirk  !"  I  could  not  help  remarking.  That 
any  worshipper,  on  such  a  solemn  occasion,  should  have 
contributed  to  the  collection  a  rotten  egg  might  well  have 
appeared  an  impossibility  to  any  mind  but  that  of  a  highly 
trained  and  experienced  deacon. 

On  returning  to  the  Mission-house  I  asked  Dr.  Laws  if 
he  had  ever  dreamed  of  such  a  day  as  this. 

Yes,"  he  replied  with  animation,  "  I  knew  it  would  come. 
Never  in  the  darkest  day  did  I  doubt  it." 

"But  did  you  expect  to  live  to  see  it?"  I  inquired. 

He  smiled,  "Ah,  that  is  another  question".  Then,  his 
mind  running  back  on  the  past,  he  told  of  a  night  of  agony 
he  had  spent  in  that  very  house,  with  his  wife  and  Suther- 
land, ready  to  flee  at  a  moment's  notice.  In  the  morning 
Sutherland's  hair  was  grey.  Now  Sutherland  sleeps  in  his 
grave  below  the  Mission-house  and  Laws  has  lived  to  see  his 
forty  years  of  labour  crowned  by  a  fully  constituted  native 
Church. 

Well  might  he  sing  his  "  Nunc  Dimittis  ".  Five-and-forty 
years  ago,  in  the  might  of  his  faith  and  daring,  he  plunged 
into  the  darkest  thicket  of  heathenism,  hewed  out  there  a 
clearing,  and  planted  a  garden  of  God.  To-day,  the  wilder- 
ness and  the  solitary  place  are  glad  for  him ;  he  has  made 
the  desert  to  rejoice  and  blossom  as  the  rose.  They  blossom 
abundantly  and  rejoice  even  with  joy  and  singing,  for  they 
have  seen  the  glory  of  the  Lord,  the  excellency  of  our  God. 

The  business  of  the  Presbytery  was  now  concluded,  but 
the  Council  continued  to  sit,  day  after  day,  reviewing  the 
whole  administration  and  policy  of  the  Mission.  There 

4 


50 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


was  a  field-day  on  the  budget,  when,  with  the  help  of  a 
blackboard,  the  grant  from  home  was  apportioned  among 
the  various  stations  to  assuage  in  some  degree  the  more 
clamant  needs.  The  problem  of  staffing  occupied  another 
day,  and  became  more  bewildering  the  longer  it  was  dis- 
cussed. It  was,  in  fact,  a  game  of  chess,  the  chessboard 
Nyasaland,  the  pawns  missionaries,  and  the  problem  how  to 
move  to  the  best  advantage  in  view  of  furloughs  and  short- 
age through  sickness.  Every  possible  move  was  tried,  and 
by  night  a  decision  was  reached  which  was  completely 
overturned  the  next  day.  The  final  solution  was  perhaps 
the  best  that  could  be  made  of  it,  though  one  gentle  lady, 
in  the  bitterness  of  her  soul  at  being  called  to  part  from  her 
beloved  girls,  pronounced  it  to  be  of  the  devil. 

In  the  midst  of  these  high  debates  a  doctor  gravely  rose 
and  moved  the  immediate  adjournment  of  the  house,  as  his 
eye  had  detected  a  house  tick  crawling  on  the  floor.  This 
motion  was  unanimously  carried,  the  members  having 
plainly  a  wholesome  dread  of  being,  as  the  msambisgi 
would  have  said,  "bitten  by  buggies".  The  place  of 
meeting  was  accordingly  changed  forthwith,  but  not  soon 
enough  to  prevent  one  of  the  members  being  afterwards 
prostrated  with  tick  fever. 

The  evenings  were  devoted  to  committee  work,  which 
gave  a  welcome  respite  to  a  mere  deputy.  Even  missionary 
human  nature,  under  so  prolonged  a  strain,  might  excusably 
faint,  and,  while  the  spirit  was  still  willing,  the  flesh  grow 
weak.  It  was  whispered  that  once,  at  the  end  of  a  long 
sederunt,  when  all  were  worn  out  but  Dr.  Laws,  that 
ancient  superman,  who  continued  to  press  his  point  with 
inexhaustible  energy,  a  long-suffering  member,  imagining 
himself  in  a  very  different  place,  sleepily  remonstrated, 
But  you  know,  dearie —  Upon  which,  even  the  Doctor 
had  to  recognise  that  the  inevitable  end  had  come. 

Accommodation  being  limited,  it  was  my  fortune  to  room 
with  the  Doctor,  our  respective  camp  beds  being  pitched  in 
opposite  corners  of  a  brick-floored  room.  Night  by  night 
the  veteran,  still  unwearied  after  the  labours  of  the  day, 
would  pour  into  my  most  willing,  but  sometimes  heavy,  ear 


GOD'S  GARDEN  BY  THE  LAKE  51 


the  wealth  of  his  unrivalled  knowledge  and  experience.  At 
a  hint  that  it  was  bedtime  he  would  begin,  slowly  and 
mechanically,  to  undress,  the  wonderful  flow  of  his  talk 
never  ceasing.  By  and  by  he  would  consent  to  lie  down, 
inviting  me,  however,  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  his  bed.  At  last 
the  monologue  had  to  be  forcibly  broken  off,  and  next 
morning  I  would  wake  to  find  him  already  up  and  rummag- 
ing among  his  papers,  arranging  the  business  of  another 
day. 

A  British  governor  said  of  him  :  "  He  is  the  greatest 
man  who  has  yet  appeared  in  Nyasaland  ".  But  he  is  more. 
Without  doubt  he  is  one  of  the  world's  supreme  workers, 
a  man  of  a  single  passion,  great  in  conception  and  tireless 
in  execution,  with  an  ardour  which  age  and  labour  cannot 
quench.  A  great  figure  indeed  !  one  of  the  greatest  of  our 
age  and  country,  and  worthy  to  be  set  beside  that  of 
Livingstone  !  It  may  be  said,  without  fear  of  contradiction, 
there  is  no  greater  name  in  the  missionary  history  of  any 
church  than  the  name  of  Laws  of  Livingstonia. 

Thursday  came  and  brought  the  close  of  the  Council, 
busy  to  the  last  crowded  minute.  The  Queen  had  been 
ordered  for  twelve  noon  to  take  on  board  those  who  were 
going  up  the  lake.  At  noon  the  Council  was  still  sitting, 
and  the  captain  came  ashore  to  urge  haste.  Four  o'clock 
was  fixed,  then  six,  and  still  the  Council  sat  on.  The 
captain,  whose  language  on  the  bridge  is  not  always 
parliamentary,  was  being  gallantly  held  in  play  by  the 
ladies,  with  the  powerful  aid  of  afternoon  tea,  which  pro- 
longed itself  into  late  dinner. 

Ultimately  at  10.30  P.M.  the  end  was  reached.  After 
the  benediction  hands  were  joined,  and  the  vesper  of  the 
Scottish  Church  was  sung — 

"  O  may  we  stand  before  the  Lamb." 

Immediately  thereafter  we  dispersed  and  hurried  to  the 
bay.  With  the  briefest  farewells  on  the  shore  we  jumped 
into  the  boats  and  pulled  out  towards  the  Queen.  It  was 
moonlight,  and  the  figure  of  Dr.  Laws,  standing  up  in  the 
stern  of  our  b-ial  and  grasping  the  tiller,  with  a  capacious 


52  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


sun-helmet  well  back  on  his  head  like  a  sou'-wester,  made 
a  striking  picture  of  a  "  sky  pilot ". 

As  we  sailed  out  of  the  bay  Dr.  Elmslie  stood  silently 
looking  across  at  the  headland.  "  Changed  days ! "  he 
said.  "  I  have  seen  that  hill  black  with  fugitives  when  the 
Ngoni  were  out  on  the  war-path." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A  COLLEGE  IN  THE  WILDS. 

Ninety  miles  north  of  Bandawe  Mt.  Waller  rises  nobly 
above  the  lake.  Behind  it,  on  the  plateau  of  Kondowe, 
stands  the  Livingstonia  Institution,  without  doubt  the 
most  remarkable  achievement  in  Central  Africa.  Mt. 
Waller  reaches  a  height  of  4400  feet,  and  its  summit  is  a 
gigantic  oblong  rock,  altar-shaped,  and  supported  on  three 
sides  by  a  series  of  natural  buttresses.  Viewed  from  the 
lake  it  has  a  striking,  and  indeed  unique,  configuration. 
At  this  point  the  mountains  begin  to  retreat  from  the  lake, 
and  a  precipitous  ridge  or  escarpment  runs  north-west  from 
Mt.  Waller.    Above  this  ridge  lies  Kondow6. 

When  one  lands  at  Florence  Bay  and  looks  up  at  the 
gigantic  escarpment  in  front,  one  begins  to  inquire  scep- 
tically about  the  ladder.  It  is  not  far  to  seek.  A  well-made 
road  starts  from  the  bay  and  in  resolute  fashion  tackles  the 
apparently  inaccessible  height.  Four-and-twenty  times,  as 
it  ascends,  it  doubles  back  on  itself,  making  an  unparalleled 
series  of  "  Devil's  Elbows,"  at  each  of  which  there  is  pre- 
sented the  choice  of  following  the  long  zigzag  of  the  road  or 
of  clambering  straight  up  on  hands  and  knees.  The  Institu- 
tion is  only  four  miles  from  the  bay,  but  the  road  is  twelve 
miles  long,  and  is  credibly  reported  to  be  as  fine  a  feat  of 
engineering  as  anything  to  be  found  in  the  Himalayas. 
Near  its  upper  end  it  creeps  round  the  head  of  a  gorge 
where  twin  streams,  the  Manchewe  and  the  Kazichi,  fall 
600  feet  side  by  side  and  unite  their  waters  at  the 
bottom.  Behind  these  waterfalls  are  certain  caves,  not 
above  three  or  four  feet  high  in  the  roof,  within  which  a 
miserable  remnant  of  the  inhabitants  had  taken  refuge  from 

(53) 


54 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


the  Ngoni  and  the  slave  raider.  There  Dr.  Laws,  crawling 
in  on  hands  and  knees,  found  them,  and  now  within  a  mile 
of  the  spot  he  presides  over  a  Christian  College. 

Emerging  on  the  plateau  one  is  immediately  struck  with 
the  magnificence  of  the  situation.  Here  is  a  tableland  of 
moderate  size  rising  well  up  out  of  a  billowy  country. 
Across  a  deep  valley  the  altar-shaped  head  of  Mt.  Waller 
appears.  The  mountains  to  the  west  rise,  richly  wooded, 
to  a  height  of  7000  feet.  In  front,  and  miles  below,  the  blue 
lake  spreads  out  gloriously,  and  beyond  it  the  Livingstone 
Mountains  cut  the  horizon  forty  miles  away.  The  air  is 
clear  and  sharp,  and  after  the  sweltering  heat  of  the  lake 
one  enjoys  the  home  comfort  of  a  cold  in  the  head. 

The  Institution  stands  on  the  very  edge  of  the  plateau, 
overlooking  the  lake.  Parallel  to  the  edge  a  fine  avenue  of 
Mlanje  cedar  has  been  planted,  leaving  a  strip  of  100  yards 
in  width,  along  which  runs  the  main  line  of  buildings,  in- 
cluding schools,  hospital,  and  houses  for  the  staff.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  avenue  are  the  post  office,  the  native  store, 
and  various  workshops.  Elsewhere  on  the  plateau  are  to 
be  found  a  homestead  and  meal-mill,  a  brickwork,  a  saw- 
mill, and  a  pottery.  Throughout  the  Institution  an  ex- 
cellent water  supply  has  been  introduced  from  the  mountains, 
while  a  turbine  house  at  the  falls  generates  sufficient  power 
to  drive  all  the  machinery  and  supply  electric  light  in  all 
the  buildings. 

What  amazes  one  is  the  extraordinary  contrast  between 
the  Institution  and  its  surroundings.  Wild  and  savage 
nature  surges  up  to  the  very  door.  A  lion  may  prowl 
round  the  houses  any  night,  an  antelope  may  dash  across 
the  avenue,  pursued  by  a  pack  of  hunting  dogs.  One 
peaceful  evening  a  leopard  surprised  a  pair  of  happy  lovers 
at  the  very  moment  when  a  certain  momentous  question 
was  being  put.  The  lady  was  too  excited  to  notice  it,  and 
her  companion  had  the  nerve  to  sit  still.  The  leopard,  to 
his  undying  credit,  slunk  off  noiselessly  into  the  bush,  and 
left  the  lady  undisturbed  to  breathe  a  sweet  consent. 
Walking  in  the  stately  avenue,  or  listening  to  the  whirl  of 
the  turbine  house,  or  standing  in  the  operating  theatre  of 


A  COLLEGE  IN  THE  WILDS 


the  hospital,  one  can  hardly  bring  the  mind  to  realise  that 
this  is  the  heart  of  darkest  Africa.  So  magical  a  transfor- 
mation seems  possible  only  in  a  dream. 

The  buildings  themselves  are  severely  plain,  without  the 
least  attempt  at  fine  architectural  effect,  but  the  whole  plan 
is  spacious  and  impressive  in  the  highest  degree.  Every- 
where there  is  evidence  of  a  master  mind,  with  far-sweeping 
vision  and  profound  faith  in  the  future.  Dr.  Laws  is  be- 
yond all  comparison  the  (jrand  Old  Man  of  Central  Africa, 
but  fully  to  appreciate  his  greatness  he  must  be  seen  at  the 
Institution.  His  is  a  mind  capable  at  once  of  grasping  a 
great  conception,  and  of  patiently  working  out  the  minutest 
details.  In  his  office  a  score  of  departments  are  centred. 
The  most  prominent  article  of  furniture  is  a  ponderous 
bureau,  reaching  almost  to  the  ceiling,  the  drawers  of  which 
are  labelled,  to  name  but  a  few  at  random,  Native  Church, 
Medical,  Educational,  Government,  Post  office.  Carpentry, 
Engineering,  Agriculture,  Apprentices,  Home  Invoices, 
Goods  in  transit,"  etc.  He  is  master  in  every  workshop, 
as  was  evident  when  we  walked  through  them  together.  In 
the  printer's  shop  he  knew  every  fount  of  type  and  every 
quality  and  style  of  paper.  In  the  carpentry  department 
he  could  lay  his  hand  on  the  whole  stock  of  nails,  screws, 
bolts,  and  fittings  of  every  description.  Nothing  appeared 
to  escape  his  eye.  Passing  through  the  native  store  he  ob- 
served a  roll  of  calico  with  two  pieces  awkwardly  snipped 
out  of  it. 

Paddy,  come  here,"  he  called  to  the  native  shopman. 
"When  you  cut  out  patterns,  cut  them  across  and  not  down. 
You  are  wasting  the  cloth." 

It  brought  to  mind  a  little  incident  at  Bandaw6.  Enter- 
ing our  common  bedroom  one  night  he  noticed  a  mat  laid 
awry.    He  bent  down  and  carefully  straightened  it. 

"  How  like  an  African,"  he  said.  "  No  natural  idea  of 
straightness.  People  won't  believe  it,  but  you  give  the 
African  a  great  lift  when  you  teach  him  just  to  put  things 
straight." 

Perhaps  no  fitter  description  could  be  given  of  his  own 
life's  work  than  simply  that — "  teaching  the  African  to  put 


56 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


things  straight".  His  forty  odd  years  in  Central  Africa 
have  been  largely  occupied  with  trivial  duties  requiring  in- 
finite patience  and  earning  no  applause,  yet  he  has  laboured 
with  immense  cumulative  effect,  and  in  such  wise  the 
foundations  have  been  firmly  laid  for  the  Christian  civilisa- 
tion of  the  future. 

Early  one  morning  he  led  the  way  into  a  thicket  on  the 
highest  part  of  the  plateau. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  the  site  of  the  Overtoun  Memorial 
Church.  The  clock  at  the  post  office  will  be  put  upon  the 
tower  and  will  be  seen  for  miles  around." 

Then,  boring  deeper  into  the  thicket  and  standing  up  to 
the  knees  in  the  dewy  grass,  he  waved  his  hands  towards 
the  surrounding  trees  :  Here  is  the  site  of  the  permanent 
college  buildings,  and  this  is  the  quadrangle". 

A  few  moments  later  we  emerged  from  the  thicket,  and, 
standing  in  the  open,  he  looked  eastward  with  pardonable 
pride  over  a  wide  panorama  of  wooded  hills  and  rich  valleys, 
all  of  it  the  property  of  the  Institution,  the  princely  gift  of 
the  British  South  Africa  Company. 

"The  Home  Committee,"  he  said,  "  were  very  reluctant 
to  be  saddled  with  all  this  land,  but  the  day  is  coming  when 
it  will  be  of  great  value.  You  know,"  he  continued,  speak- 
ing as  one  Aberdeen  student  to  another,  "  what  a  blessing 
the  Aberdeen  University  bursaries  have  been  to  the  poor 
students  of  the  north.  Where  did  the  funds  come  from  ? 
Much  of  it  from  lands  gifted  long  ago  to  the  University, 
not  of  great  value  at  the  time,  but  now  a  rich  endowment. 
So  will  it  be  with  these  lands." 

As  one  listened  one  could  foresee,  in  the  light  of  the 
old  man's  faith  and  vision,  the  Institution  becoming  the 
University  of  Central  Africa,  and  the  keen-minded  lads 
from  all  the  surrounding  tribes  flocking  up  to  its  bursary 
competition. 

The  Institution  raises  the  whole  question  of  the  higher 
education  of  the  native,  and,  for  the  unprejudiced  mind, 
settles  it  as  well.  Opposition  to  the  policy  is  widespread 
in  commercial  circles,  and  often  vehement.  But  one  ob- 
serves that  the  planter  who  is  most  contemptuous  of  the 


A  COLLEGE  IN  THE  WILDS 


57 


educated  native  finds  it  convenient  to  have  one  or  two  as 
clerks  in  his  office.  One  of  this  type  we  met  at  Chitambo. 
He  had  no  manner  of  use  for  the  mission  boy.  But  the 
retort  came  quick. 

You  are  200  miles  from  home,"  said  the  missionary, 

and  you  have  left  your  whole  place  under  the  charge  of 
your  capitao,  a  Mwenzo  mission  boy.    How  is  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  thoroughly  trust  him,"  was  the  lame  reply ; 
"  but  then  he  is  an  exception." 

Observation  seemed  to  point  to  these  exceptions  being 
fairly  numerous. 

No  doubt,  in  the  transition  stage  the  sudden  inrush  of 
new  ideas  upsets  the  balance  of  certain  minds,  and  produces 
the  phenomenon  of  the  half-educated,  self-conceited  native, 
impatient  of  foreign  control.  The  Ethiopian  movement, 
with  its  watchword  of  "  Africa  for  the  Africans,"  has  proved 
troublesome  in  Central  as  well  as  in  South  Africa.  But  the 
Scots  missionary,  far  from  encouraging,  has  done  more  than 
any  other  agency  to  combat  and  restrain  it.  In  this  he  has 
had  the  steady  support  of  the  leaders  of  the  native  Church, 
who  are  shrewdly  wise  in  taking  the  measure  of  these 
agitators. 

A  vain  fellow  of  the  Ethiopian  persuasion  had  been 
stirring  up  trouble  around  Ekwendeni,  and  at  length  felt 
himself  a  match  for  Dr.  Elmslie.  He  wrote  a  long  and 
laboured  epistle,  finishing  up  with  the  triumphant  challenge. 
Answer  if  you  can  No  answer  being  received,  he  ven- 
tured to  call  on  the  Doctor  to  complete  his  victory. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  my  letter  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
impudent  conceit. 

"  A  piece  of  confounded  impertinence,"  was  the  reply. 
"  Get  out  of  here."  And  the  Doctor  rose  to  his  full  height 
threateningly. 

''Oh,  but — but,"  stammered  the  discomfited  Ethiopian, 
as  he  hurriedly  backed  to  the  door,  "  I  did  not  wish  to  con- 
found you." 

There  you  have  the  spirit  of  it,  mischievous  childishness 
more  than  anything  else,  the  natural  conceit  of  a  half-trained 
mind.    It  can  be  very  dangerous,  for  a  child  is  cruel,  and 


58 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


there  sleeps  a  savage  in  every  African,  as  in  every  human, 
breast.  But  to  stamp  on  it  brutally,  to  call  for  the  total 
abolition  of  native  education,  to  regard  it  as  a  disease 
peculiar  to  the  African,  is  to  be  lost  to  all  sense  of  justice, 
and  to  ignore  all  the  lessons  of  history. 

The  only  remedy  is  obviously  more  and  sounder  educa- 
tion. The  policy  of  repression  plays  into  the  hands  of 
agitators,  for  an  ignorant  and  superstitious  people  is  the 
most  inflammable  of  all  material.  On  the  contrary,  an 
educated  people  is  the  best  check  on  the  mischief  maker. 
Give  the  x^frican  education  at  home,  and  he  will  have  no 
need  to  travel  for  it  to  America  and  form  there  dubious 
associations,  returning  to  his  people  a  bird  of  ill  omen.  Or 
if  he  does,  he  is  likely  on  his  return  to  meet  his  match  and 
find  his  level.  This  is  the  only  policy  which  accords  with 
our  British  instinct  for  justice,  and  in  spite  of  colonial  in- 
difference and  hostility  it  will  prevail.  Vast  and  dim  and 
uncertain  as  the  future  of  the  native  problem  is,  yet,  with 
wisdom  and  patient  guidance,  another  half  century  should 
see,  between  the  Cape  and  the  Great  Lakes,  an  African  race 
to  whom  English  is  their  mother  tongue  and  who  are  rapidly 
finding  their  stride  in  the  onward  march  of  civilisation. 


CHAPTER  X. 


ALONG  THE  FARTHEST  BATTLE-FRONT. 

From  Karonga,  at  the  north  end  of  Lake  Nyasa,  a  line  runs 
over  the  mountains  to  the  south  end  of  Tanganyika.  It  is 
the  boundary  dividing  German  East  Africa  from  Nyasaland 
and  North-Eastern  Rhodesia.  The  same  indulgent  British 
Government  which  made  a  present  of  Kilima  Njaro,  the 
Switzerland  of  Africa,  to  the  Kaiser,  conceded  here  a  large 
and  populous  country  where  no  German  had  any  claim  to 
be,  and  divided  asunder  tribes,  like  the  Winamwanga,  whose 
sole  desire  ever  since  has  been  to  be  reunited  under  the 
Union  Jack.  Close  along  the  frontier  on  the  British  side 
runs  the  Stevenson  Road,  connecting  the  lakes.  Perhaps 
one  ought  to  say  ran,  for  this  once  famous  road,  built  as  a 
link  in  the  great  waterway  from  the  east  coast  to  the  heart 
of  the  continent,  and  apparently  destined  to  be  a  main 
highway  of  civilisation  and  commerce,  has  been  completely 
side-tracked  by  the  Cape  to  Cairo  Railway,  and  has  relapsed 
to  the  condition  of  a  bush  path.  Where  the  road  enters 
the  hills  a  monument  stands  on  a  rocky  eminence  to  remind 
the  grateful  traveller  of  the  philanthropist  at  whose  expense 
the  road  was  built.  But  the  traveller's  gratitude  is  sensibly 
diminished  when  he  finds  that  the  road,  in  places,  is  more 
easily  discernible  on  the  map  than  in  the  forest. 

This  road  I  was  now  to  follow,  intending  from  Karonga 
to  push  up  through  the  hills  to  Mwenzo,  and  thereafter 
make  a  long  trek  to  the  south-west  down  the  great  plateau 
of  North-Eastern  Rhodesia  till  I  should  strike  the  Cape  to 
Cairo  Railway  at  Broken  Hill.  An  arduous  journey  through 
remote  and  savage  parts,  but  one  which  gave  promise, 
afterwards  amply  fulfilled,  of  rich  and  varied  experiences. 

(59) 


6o 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


When  we  left  the  Institution  there  were  three  of  us, 
familiarly  known  as  the  Professor,  the  Doctor,  and  the 
Deputy.  Dr.  Chisholm,  that  prince  of  good  fellows,  was 
returning  from  the  Council  to  his  beloved  Mwenzo.  No- 
body like  him  for  marshalling  a  line  of  carriers  and  chaff- 
ing them  into  good  humour  for  the  day's  march.  The 
more  critical  the  situation  the  more  imperturbable  was  he, 
as  with  deep  gravity  he  would  invite  the  company  to  par- 
take of  an  invisible  banana.  The  Professor,  all  too  youthful 
for  that  grave  title,  was  rollicking  home  for  his  first  furlough 
by  the  most  wild  and  circuitous  route.  Nature  had 
embarrassed  him  with  the  endowment  of  an  uncommonly 
big  heart,  which  he  took  extraordinary  precautions  to  hide, 
pursuing,  for  this  end,  a  policy  of  ignoring  conventions  and 
shocking  friends  by  harmless  improprieties.  Relieved  of 
teaching  theology  to  native  preachers,  he  was  keenly  antici- 
pating the  next  Edinburgh  Rugby  season.  But  the  World 
War  sent  him  into  the  trenches  instead,  where,  much  to  his 
embarrassment,  they  insisted  on  giving  him  the  D.C.M. 
On  the  Doctor,  too,  the  war  was  soon  to  lay  a  rude  hand, 
driving  him  into  the  bush  with  his  wife  and  child,  where  he 
settled  down  philosophically  and  proceeded  to  build  and 
run  a  military  hospital. 

All  three  of  us  were  on  wheels,  for  I  had  the  great  good 
fortune  to  procure  a  cycle  at  the  Institution,  which  gave 
me  permanent  deliverance  from  the  purgatory  of  the  machila. 
Cycling  on  the  forest  paths  is  a  performance  of  the  nature 
of  trick  riding.  The  road  varies  from  a  first-class  cycle 
track  to  an  impenetrable  tangle  or  a  hopeless  swamp. 
Grass  and  scrub  brush  one's  legs  on  either  side,  and  at  any 
moment  the  pedal  may  strike  a  snag  or  a  little  ant-hill,  the 
size  of  an  upturned  flowerpot  and  as  hard  as  a  brick.  Often 
the  path  is  so  winding  as  never  to  be  visible  for  more  than 
two  or  three  yards  ahead,  and  expectation  is  kept  continu- 
ally on  the  alert  as  to  what  is  round  the  next  turn.  On 
one  occasion  the  Professor,  rounding  a  sharp  corner,  found 
himself  on  the  edge  of  a  deep  pool  with  the  remains  of  a 
broken  rustic  bridge  in  front.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  fling  himself  off  into  the  grass.    Before  he  could  re- 


ALONG  THE  FARTHEST  BATTLE-FRONT  6i 


cover  the  Doctor's  portly  form  was  precipitated  on  to  him, 
and  the  Deputy,  following  close,  added  himself  to  the  heap, 
thankful  to  be  on  top  and  not  below.  The  crossing  of 
streams  is  always  a  speculation.  The  path  in  front  dis- 
appears over  the  bank.  The  bed  may  be  dry  and  the  path 
worn  smooth,  in  which  case  a  swift  rush  down  one  slope 
enables  the  cyclist  to  climb  up  the  other.  But  then  there 
may  be  water,  or  a  mass  of  boulders,  or  a  treacherous  de- 
posit of  loose  sand  where  the  cycle  skids,  in  which  case  it  is 
necessary  to  dismount.  Thus  one  advances  to  the  edge, 
craning  one's  neck  to  discover  what  lies  ahead,  and  to 
decide  on  the  instant  what  strategy  to  adopt. 

When  progress  becomes  impossible  the  cycle-boy,  who 
has  been  trotting  behind,  takes  the  cycle,  and  probably 
carries  it  on  his  shoulder  by  preference,  even  where  he  might 
wheel  it.  At  the  crossing  of  a  deep  stream  or  a  dambo 
he  may  have  to  carry  across  both  the  machine  and  the 
rider.  Yet  it  is  surprising  how  much  cycling  can  be  had 
by  a  careful  rider  who  is  prepared  to  seize  every  oppor- 
tunity and  sit  in  the  saddle  till  he  is  brought  to  a  stand  or 
thrown  into  the  grass.  As  the  carriers  cannot  do  more  than 
an  average  of  twenty  miles  a  day,  if  even  half  that  distance 
is  cycled,  the  whole  day's  journey  becomes  a  comparatively 
light  affair. 

On  leaving  the  Institution  to  proceed  to  Karonga  our 
first  experience  was  to  cycle  down  the  mountain  road  to 
the  flat  at  Florence  Bay.  It  was  a  severe  test  of  our 
nerves  and  of  our  brakes.  Many  of  the  corners  being  too 
sharp  to  be  negotiated,  one  could  only  creep  down  to  them, 
jump  off,  turn  the  cycle  round,  and  start  on  the  next  incline. 
As  we  cautiously  pursued  our  way  down  this  headlong  zig- 
zag, two  native  boys  kept  sliding  down  the  mountain  side 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  us  go  by.  After  we  passed 
they  slid  down  to  the  next  level  and  waited  our  re-appear- 
ance. When  this  had  been  repeated  several  times  it  gave 
one  the  feeling  of  riding  round  and  round  a  cycle  track  past 
the  same  point  and  the  same  spectators. 

North  of  Florence  Bay  the  mountains,  beginning  to  re- 
treat westward,  leave  a  flat  which  stretches  up  to  the  head 


62 


STREAMS' IN  THE  DESERT 


of  the  lake,  and  in  which  cotton  planting  has  been  attempted 
with  some  success.  Along  this  flat  we  now  cycled,  extri- 
cating ourselves  with  some  difficulty  from  the  hospitality  of 
the  planters,  with  whom  both  the  Doctor  and  the  Professor 
were  evidently  very  popular,  and  by  noon  of  the  second 
day  we  reached  Karonga. 

In  the  history  of  the  rise  of  our  African  empire  the  name 
of  Karonga  figures  prominently.  It  was  the  farthest  out- 
post of  civilisation,  pushed  right  into  the  heart  of  the  slave- 
raiding  country.  There  Captain,  afterwards  Sir  Frederick, 
Lugard  with  a  handful  of  Mandala  men  waged  a  long  and 
dubious  war  with  Mlozi,  the  Arab  slaver  and  self-styled 
Sultan  of  Nkonde.  Mlozi  had  entrenched  himself  at 
Mpata,  seven  miles  from  Karonga,  in  a  strong  position 
commanding  the  pass  into  the  hills  and  the  ferry  over  the 
North  Rukuru,  and  closing  the  road  to  Tanganyika.  He 
had  let  loose  his  dogs  of  war,  the  Ruga-ruga,  and  was 
wasting  the  villages  of  Wankonde.  One  horrible  scene 
was  enacted  near  a  lagoon  to  the  north  of  Karonga.  The 
fugitive  Wankonde  having  taken  refuge  in  the  tall  reeds 
and  grass  by  the  lake  shore,  Mlozi's  men  set  fire  to  the 
reeds  and  burnt  them  out.  Those  who  fled  the  flames  were 
shot  or  speared,  while  those  who  plunged  into  the  water 
fell  a  prey  to  the  swarms  of  crocodiles  that  had  gathered 
to  the  horrid  feast.  Mlozi  owned  allegiance  to  the  Sultan 
of  Zanzibar,  and  was  working  for  the  complete  clearance  of 
the  white  man  from  Nyasaland  and  the  undisturbed  continu- 
ance of  the  slave  trade.  At  Deep  Bay,  a  few  miles  north 
of  the  Institution,  where  the  lake  contracts  to  a  width  of 
fifteen  miles,  there  was  a  regular  slave  ferry.  As  many  as 
forty  thousand  unhappy  creatures  were  taken  across  annually 
on  their  way  to  the  slave  markets  at  the  coast. 

It  was  an  intolerable  situation  and  one  full  of  the  gravest 
peril.  Mandala,  under  the  resolute  leadership  of  the  brothers 
Moir,  undertook  to  dislodge  Mlozi.  "  An  uphill  task,'' 
Lugard  wrote,  ''only  half  a  dozen  men  and  those  all  sick, 
natives  we  can't  rely  on  and  discontented  to  boot,  bad  guns, 
bad  ammunition,  no  bayonets,  no  entrenching  tools,  and  so 
vast  an  area  to  guard  and  so  powerful  an  enemy."  The 


ALONG  THE  FARTHEST  BATTLE-FRONT  63 


struggle  with  the  slaver  was  arduous  and  often  desperate, 
maintained  with  extraordinary  gallantry,  but  with  inade- 
quate resources.  John  Moir  went  home  to  England  and 
brought  out  a  cannon  to  pound  the  slaver's  stockade,  but 
still  no  decisive  result  was  reached.  An  inconclusive  peace 
had  to  be  patched  up,  which  left  the  slaver  more  powerful 
and  lawless  than  before.  At  last,  however,  the  British 
Government,  fully  aroused  and  gripping  things  with  a 
firmer  hand,  sent  up  a  force  which  put  an  end  to  the  slave- 
raiding,  and  hanged  Mlozi  for  his  crimes. 

Once  again,  in  the  World  War,  the  name  of  Karonga  has 
figured  in  despatches.  The  Germans,  worthy  successors  of 
Mlozi,  let  loose  the  Ruga-ruga  on  undefended  villages. 
Even  here,  on  this  the  remotest  of  their  frontiers,  they  had 
their  field  and  machine  guns  ready.  Fighting  occurred  all 
along  the  frontier  from  Nyasa  to  Tanganyika.  Karonga 
was  attacked,  but  the  enemy  was  driven  off  with  heavy 
loss  and  compelled  to  keep  to  his  own  side  of  the  Songwe 
River.  Gradually  troops  for  the  invasion  of  German  East 
Africa  were  assembled,  ready  to  co-operate  from  the  south 
with  General  Smut's  great  drive  from  the  north.  While 
they  lay  at  Karonga  the  Institution  proved  of  immense 
national  value.  Its  medical  staff  and  hospital  were  at  the 
disposal  of  the  wounded,  its  meal-mill  ran  night  and  day 
grinding  flour  for  the  troops,  and  Dr.  Laws  slept  with  his 
ear  at  the  telephone  receiver.  Probably  the  British  Govern- 
ment would  freely  admit  that  all  the  money  ever  spent  on 
the  Institution  was  repaid  to  the  nation  tenfold  in  that 
critical  time.  The  fact  seems  worthy  of  mention  as  an 
interesting  by-product  of  missionary  enterprise. 

Karonga,  when  we  arrived  there,  was,  like  the  rest  of  the 
Empire,  all  unconscious  of  the  storm  so  soon  to  burst. 
The  worst  trouble  at  the  moment  was  a  plague  of  kungu 
flies.  This  fly  is  a  species  of  midge  peculiar  to  Lake  Nyasa. 
It  rises  in  great  clouds  from  the  surface  of  the  lake,  and 
drifting  inshore  literally  covers  the  ground.  On  a  clear 
day  these  clouds  can  be  seen  hovering  over  the  surface  of 
the  water  like  smoke  pillars,  and  one  would  confidently  say 
there  were  a  dozen  or  a  score  of  steamers  in  the  distance. 


64 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Having  read  the  account  of  a  traveller  who  affirmed  he  had 
seen  the  kungu  covering  the  ground  to  the  depth  of  a  foot, 
I  made  careful  inquiry,  but  the  oldest  inhabitant  could  not 
vouch  for  more  than  an  inch  in  depth,  which,  to  be  sure,  is 
a  prodigious  quantity.  The  natives  welcome  the  swarms 
of  kungu,  which  they  sweep  up  and  bake  into  cakes.  In 
missionary  circles  it  is  facetiously  held  to  mark  the  topmost 
height  of  Christian  charity  and  devotion  to  the  natives 
when,  for  their  sakes,  a  man  is  enabled  to  rejoice  in  a  plague 
of  kungu  flies.  This  superlative  degree  of  virtue  I  was  far 
from  attaining.  In  the  Karonga  Mission-house,  at  the 
Mackenzie's  hospitable  table,  a  little  black  boy  had  the  sole 
duty  of  walking  round  unobtrusively  sweeping  up  the  flies, 
much  as  a  table-maid  in  happier  climes  sweeps  up  the 
crumbs.  By  the  time  he  had  completed  one  round  it  was 
necessary  to  begin  another,  for  the  flies  continued  to  fall 
like  a  shower  of  soot.  Unfortunately,  he  could  not  sweep 
the  dishes  and  the  food.  As  for  these,  the  guests  must 
needs  make  the  best  of  it. 

Yet  one  has  the  pleasantest  memories  of  Karonga,  of  the 
singing  of  the  children,  and  of  glimpses  of  native  home  life. 
In  company  with  Mrs.  Mackenzie  we  visited  one  of  the 
villages  and  entered  several  of  the  huts.  Our  hostess 
treated  the  inmates  with  the  most  charming  courtesy,  such 
co*urtesy  as  is  at  times  overlooked  even  by  the  best  of 
missionaries.  The  native  teacher's  wife  lived  in  a  tiny, 
three-roomed,  mud-walled  house,  built  in  European  style. 
Hearing  we  were  in  the  village,  she  began  hurriedly  to  set 
her  house  in  order,  and  as  it  was  still  early  morning, 
we  took  a  turn  up  and  down  till  she  was  ready  to  receive 
us.  The  abode  was  humble  enough,  but  a  vast  advance  on 
the  native  hut.  It  was  a  home  where  a  Christian  man  and 
his  wife  could  bring  up  their  children  decently.  And  when 
one  saw  the  quiet  happy  mother,  who  in  early  girlhood  had 
been  found  by  the  Mission  a  white  man's  castaway,  ill, 
crushed,  and  heartless,  and  who  now,  by  kindness  and 
the  power  of  the  Gospel,  had  been  reanimated  with  a 
Christian  and  womanly  spirit,  it  was  a  powerful  tonic  to 
faith. 


ALONG  THE  FARTHEST  BATTLE-FROxNT  65 


Miriam's  husband  has  a  gift  of  song,  is  the  author  of  a 
popular  hymn,  and  has  trained  an  excellent  choir.  On 
visiting  his  school  we  were  greeted  with  a  pretty  chorus 
of  welcome,  the  children  holding  aloft  bunches  of  flowers 
as  they  sang.  Then,  somewhat  ambitiously,  they  attempted 
a  song  in  English,  of  which  the  refrain  was,  We  are  come 
from  fairyland  ".  "  Fah-rah-laan  "  they  pronounced  it,  and 
as  some  of  the  pupils  were  stalwart  fellows,  with  the  build 
and  appearance  of  coal-heavers,  the  general  effect  was 
delightfully  droll. 

Returning  from  school  we  met  an  old  chief,  Merere,  who 
had  been  through  the  wild  Mlozi  days.  He  now  had  the 
mixed  reputation  of  being  at  once  a  notable  judge,  poly- 
gamist,  and  beer-drinker.  He  inquired  for  his  old  friend, 
John  Moir,  and  sent  his  regards. 

"  And  if  John  Moir  asks,  *  Is  Merere  a  Christian  ? '  what 
shall  I  say  ?  "  we  asked  him. 

Say,  I  am  a  lost  one,"  he  replied.  Then,  by  way  of 
explanation,  he  added,  "  It  is  God's  will  that  I  should  be  a 
lost  one". 

It  was  startling  to  hear  so  familiar  an  excuse  from  the 
lips  of  that  old  heathen.  But  Merer^'s  eyes,  glazed  and 
dim  with  beer-drinking,  were  more  truthful  than  his  tongue, 
and  gave  the  real  reason.  As  one  looked  at  him  and 
remembered  the  children  singing  in  the  Mission-school,  with 
their  bright  flowers  and  pretty  ways,  one  felt  a  contrast  as 
of  darkness  and  dawn,  and  could  not  but  rejoice  in  the 
passing  of  the  old  order. 

We  left  Karonga  in  a  blinding  shower  of  kungu  flies. 
Our  ulendo  had  been  organised  in  the  forenoon,  and  the 
Doctor  wisely  insisted  on  a  short  half-day's  march  to  get 
the  men  disentangled  from  their  friends,  and  ready  for  the 
road  in  serious  earnest  next  day.  A  Karonga  lad,  who  had 
been  assigned  to  me  for  cycle-boy,  asked  leave  to  go  to  his 
village,  promising  to  join  us  as  we  passed.  I  demurred, 
but  Mackenzie  said,  "  He  is  all  right,  you  can  depend  on 
Alick  ".  With  that  I  had  to  be  content.  Sure  enough  in 
the  afternoon,  as  I  cycled  through  a  village  on  the  flat,  I 
heard  the  sudden  patter  of  bare  feet  behind  me.    It  was 

5 


66 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Alick,  a  fine  strapping  lad,  and,  as  I  was  afterwards  to  find, 
a  willing  runner  and  a  gentleman. 

We  crossed  the  North  Rukuru  and  reached  the  pass  at 
Mpata  before  sundown.  There,  in  a  romantic  little  fold  of 
the  hills,  we  pitched  our  camp.  After  supper  the  carriers 
gathered  round  the  camp-fire  for  evening  prayers.  The 
bronze  faces  gleaming  in  the  firelight,  the  Doctor  in  the 
centre,  reading  in  his  quiet,  kindly  voice,  and  the  hush  of 
night  upon  the  closely  encircling  hills,  made  a  picture  of 
rare  and  touching  beauty.  The  picture  abides.  Mlozi  is 
gone,  the  day  of  the  slave-raider  is  ended,  and  the  Gospel 
holds  the  pass. 


CHAPTER  XL 


SCHOOLS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS. 

Every  true  Scotsman  has  an  absolute  belief  in  the  value 
of  education,  a  belief  entirely  unconditioned  by  questions 
of  race  or  politics.  Consequently,  when  the  Scots  mis- 
sionary goes  to  Central  Africa,  he  takes  his  educational 
faith  with  him,  trains  his  native  teachers  and  covers  the 
country  with  his  village  schools.  The  native  teachers  in 
Livingstonia  are  an  influential  part  of  the  community,  and  a 
factor  to  be  reckoned  with  in  estimating  the  future.  They 
form  an  exceedingly  interesting,  if  sometimes  amusing, 
study. 

A  few  days  after  leaving  Karonga  we  had  an  encounter 
with  them  in  force.  We  were  resting  at  Forthill  for  the 
Sunday,  and  the  villagers  for  miles  round,  knowing  of  our 
presence,  had  come  in  for  service.  It  was  at  this  service 
that  a  native  elder,  waxing  eloquent  in  prayer,  gave  thanks 
for  the  Deputy  who  had  come  so  far  to  visit  them  over 
land  and  sea,  in  hunger  and  thirst,  and  stubbing  his  toes  on 
the  tree  roots  ".  It  was  a  feeling  touch  for  a  bare-footed 
audience,  and  might  fairly  be  held  to  cover  the  Deputy's 
stiff  knee  and  skiimed  elbow,  the  result  of  a  fall  from  his 
cycle. 

At  the  close  of  the  service  the  village  teachers  present, 
to  the  number  of  twenty  or  thirty,  asked  a  special  meeting 
with  the  Deputy,  whom  they  seemed  unaccountably  to 
regard  as  a  glorified  school  inspector.  The  request  was 
readily  granted,  and  after  some  remarks  they  said,  "  May 
we  come,  sir,  and  ask  questions  at  three  o'clock?" 

"  Fire  away  now,"  said  the  Deputy,  but  at  this  they 
were  somewhat  taken  aback,  not  being  sufficiently  primed. 

m 


68  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Only  one  question  was  forthcoming,  "Was  it  a  fact,  as 
reported,  that  man  had  one  rib  less  than  woman  ?  "  Their 
thinking  evidently  began  at  the  Garden  of  Eden.  This 
momentous  point  being  settled,  they  retired  to  set  them- 
selves in  array  against  three  o'clock. 

In  the  afternoon  the  first  question  came  very  near  being 
a  knock-out  blow.  "  What  is  that  ?  "  they  asked,  present- 
ing a  piece  of  paper  on  which  were  written  the  words 
Codex  Sinaiticus.  Who  would  have  expected  in  darkest 
Africa  an  inquiry  about  the  original  manuscripts  of  Scrip- 
ture ?  It  gave  one  a  sudden  and  startling  impression  of 
the  difficulties  these  poor  fellows  encounter  as  they  plunge 
headlong  into  the  accumulated  learning  of  the  ages  and 
grope  for  truth.  Other  questions,  however,  were  of  a  more 
practical  kind.  Polygamy  and  beer  drinking  especially 
came  under  review. 

"  They  say  to  me,"  said  one,  recalling  an  encounter  with 
some  subtle  polygamist,  "that  the  Bible  often  uses  the 
singular  for  the  plural.  *  The  righteous  man  '  means  many 
righteous  men.  So,  when  the  Bible  says  one  wife,  perhaps 
it  means  many  wives  !  " 

One  felt  that  the  mind  that  could  fabricate  such  an 
argument  was  acute  enough  to  see  through  it.  But  such 
questions  gave  a  glimpse  into  the  position  of  these  village 
teachers.  They  are  the  front  trench  men,  bearing  up 
against  the  daily  pressure  of  the  enemy.  Themselves 
hardly  more  than  babes  in  faith  and  knowledge,  and  with 
none  of  the  prestige  and  mental  resource  of  the  white  mis- 
sionary, they  are  opposed  by  the  authority  of  ancestral 
superstition,  flouted  by  the  askari,  tempted  by  the  specious 
promises  of  the  Ethiopian,  and  openly  contradicted  by  the 
boy  from  the  mines  who  has  added  the  cheap  scepticism  of 
the  whites  to  his  own  native  heathenism. 

It  was  the  day  after  this  encounter  that  we  made  the 
acquaintance  of  one-eyed  Shem.  We  spent  the  night  at 
his  village.  He  met  us,  neatly  dressed  in  a  white  duck 
suit,  and  put  his  scholars  through  a  very  creditable  exhibi- 
tion. His  appearance  was  remarkable.  The  loss  of  one 
eye  was  more  than  made  up  by  the  terrible  intensity  of  the 


SCHOOLS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS  69 


other,  heightened  by  a  squint.  If  you  dared  to  look  in  the 
direction  of  the  blind  eye  you  found  the  other  glaring  at 
you  across  the  bridge  of  the  nose  in  the  most  disconcerting 
way.  In  the  evening  our  ulendo  boys  played  a  game  of 
mpila,  in  which  Shem  joined  with  enthusiasm.  The  game 
consists  in  tossing  a  ball  among  the  players,  with  an  extra- 
ordinary amount  of  hand-clapping  and  ornamental  leaping. 
Shem  was  one  of  the  showiest  players.  He  seemed  literally 
to  follow  the  ball  through  the  air,  wriggling  in  every  limb. 
At  length,  finding  his  duck  suit  a  sad  hindrance,  he  stripped 
without  ceremony,  and  stood  garbed  in  a  dirty  black  loin- 
cloth and  the  tattered  remains  of  what  had  once  been  a 
striped  cotton  jersey.  It  was  a  painful  transformation. 
Nothing,  one  fancies,  can  have  happened  in  history  quite 
like  it  since  Robin  Hood  unfrocked  the  Bishop  of  Hereford 
and  made  him  dance  in  his  patchwork  shirt.  Shem  now 
looked  the  wildest  savage  of  the  lot,  and  no  stretch  of 
imagination  could  have  conceived  him  as  a  schoolmaster. 

One  fears  there  may  be  some  who  can  peel  off  the  veneer 
of  their  education  as  Shem  peeled  off  his  white  ducks  and 
revert  to  their  native  barbarism.  Yet  the  best  of  these 
teachers  are  without  question  fine  fellows,  with  a  consider- 
able mental  capacity.  Many  a  time  was  one  indebted  to 
them  as  interpreters,  a  work  for  which  they  have  great 
aptitude.  On  one  occasion  of  addressing  an  audience, 
mainly  composed  of  Matabele,  the  native  teacher,  a  Zulu, 
rendered  the  address,  sentence  by  sentence,  first  into  the 
language  of  the  Matabele  and  then  into  Sekolo,  the  language 
of  Barotseland.  This  he  did  with  amazing  fluency,  and 
when  one  considered  that  he  was  handling  three  foreign 
languages,  one  could  not  but  regard  it  as  no  mean  linguistic 
feat. 

The  village  school  is  of  the  plainest  description,  with 
the  rudest  possible  equipment.  Provided  by  the  villagers 
themseves,  it  is  merely  a  temporary  erection  like  the  other 
huts,  and  is  left  to  tumble  down  when  the  village  is  deserted. 
An  oblong  building  with  mud  walls  and  a  thatched  roof, 
two  or  three  holes  for  windows  and  an  open  doorway. 
The  floor  is  smeared  with  clay,  and  a  low  platform  of  the 


70 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


same  material  is  raised  at  the  end  of  the  room.  In  some 
cases  short  stakes  are  driven  into  the  floor,  across  the  top 
of  which  rough  poles  are  laid  by  way  of  seats.  On  these 
the  scholars  perch  like  birds  on  a  bough,  and  more  uncom- 
fortable, back -aching  seats  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine. 
Round  the  school  the  ground  is  swept  bare,  and  here  the 
pupils  commonly  sit  in  the  sun,  the  little  ones  tracing  their 
letters  in  the  dust  with  their  fingers.  Mingled  with  the 
children  there  are  usually  some  scholars  of  larger  growth, 
two  or  three  brawny  fellows,  or  a  plump  young  matron, 
who  look  oddly  out  of  place.  These  are  probably  candi- 
dates for  baptism,  for  the  Church  insists  that  every  member 
must  be  able  to  read  the  Scriptures  in  their  own  tongue. 
The  rule  is  not  strictly  enforced  in  the  case  of  the  elderly, 
and  the  young  accept  it  readily  enough,  for  there  is,  on  the 
whole,  a  considerable  keenness  to  learn. 

The  value  of  the  teaching  varies  greatly.  In  some  cases 
it  is  the  merest  parrot  work.  A  certain  teacher  had  labori- 
ously drilled  his  pupils  to  repeat  after  him  a  few  set  ques- 
tions and  answers.  As  the  inspection  day  drew  near  he 
further  drilled  them  to  repeat  the  answer  in  response  to  his 
question.  On  the  critical  day,  however,  the  pupils  forgot 
this  educational  refinement.  Accordingly,  when  the  teacher 
asked  the  first  question,  it  was  repeated  after  him.  He  tried 
another  with  the  same  result.  In  vexation  he  exclaimed, 
"  Why  are  you  so  stupid  to-day  ? "  to  which  the  class  dully 
responded,  "  Why  are  you  so  stupid  to-day  } " 

The  training  of  teachers  is  a  matter  which  constantly 
engages  the  attention  of  the  Mission.  Besides  the  regular 
course  at  the  Institution,  which  is  ever  setting  a  higher 
standard,  there  are  periodic  training  schools  for  each  dis- 
trict, held  during  the  vacation.  At  the  time  of  the  Council 
in  Bandaw6  a  teachers'  school  was  held  under  the  super- 
vision of  the  educationalist  from  the  Institution. 

In  the  English  class  reading  and  conversation  were  com- 
bined. A  row  of  stalwart,  dusky  pupils  stood  with  primers 
in  their  hands.  *'The  man  sits  on  the  chair,"  was  the 
sentence  they  were  struggling  to  master.  "Thee-a  man 
seats  thee-a  chair,"  read  one.     After  the  pronunciation 


SCHOOLS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS  71 


was  corrected,  the  teacher,  pointing  to  his  chair,  said,  *'  Sit 
on  the  chair".  The  only  response  was  a  blank  look.  The 
request  was  repeated  to  several  others  with  the  same  result. 
At  last  the  idea  struck  one  bright  youth.  He  stepped  for- 
ward, scanned  the  teacher's  face  for  encouragement,  jerked 
a  little  nearer  the  chair,  then  glanced  round  to  see  it  the 
class  were  laughing  at  him.  Was  he  right,  or  was  he  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  himself?  Finally,  with  another  jerk,  he  subsided 
into  the  chair.  Yes,  he  was  right.  His  face  broke  into  a 
broad  grin,  and  he  leaned  back  surveying  the  class  with  all 
the  conscious  self-importance  of  a  newly  enthroned  monarch. 

The  class  on  school  management  was  an  ambitious  attempt, 
and  in  the  end,  though  the  teaching  was  singularly  lucid, 
it  remained  doubtful  how  much  was  brought  within  the 
comprehension  of  the  pupils.  Philemon,  one  of  the  ad- 
vanced teache  s,  was  standing  by,  helping  to  find  the  nearest 
equivalents  in  Chitonga  lor  the  technical  terms.  Attention 
was  the  subject  of  the  lecture. 

"  Attention  depends  on  interest.  What  is  the  right  word 
for  interest?  "  After  various  explanations  and  illustrations 
to  make  the  point  clear,  Philemon  suggested,  as  the  correct 
word,  kukhorweska^  and  the  lecturer  proceeded  to  make  use 
of  it.  At  the  close  of  the  lecture  he  shook  his  head  and 
said,  1  am  dubious  about  that  word  And,  sure  enough, 
the  meaning  proved  to  be  to  satisfy  and  not  to  interest. 
He  had  been  pressing  on  these  bewildered  teachers  the 
necessity  of satisfying  "  their  pupils  with  the  lesson,  when 
probably  their  own  experience  was  that  the  pupils  were  only 
too  easily  satisfied. 

Under  such  conditions  progress  is  necessarily  difificult 
and  unequal.  Yet  the  results  attained  are  nothing  short 
of  marvellous.  Thousands  can  read  and  write  a  little,  and 
the  number  is  rapidly  increasing.  The  carrier  takes  his 
Bible  and  hymn  book  with  him  on  ulendo,  and  reads  and 
sings  by  the  camp-fire.  The  boy  at  the  mines  can  write 
letters  home  to  his  friends.  A  small  number  of  the 
better-trained  pupils  find  employment  as  clerks,  typists,  and 
Government  interpreters.  The  general  intellectual  and 
moral  influence  of  the  schools  is  undoubtedly  great. 


72 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


But  the  need  is  greater.  The  problem  of  the  young  in 
Central  Africa  is  acute.  The  old,  iron  rule  of  the  chiels  is 
broken,  the  young  are  unsettled  by  contact  with  the  new 
order  of  things,  and  in  danger  of  throwing  off  all  restraint. 
The  village  fathers  and  headmen  are  bewildered  and  have 
lost  hold  of  the  situation.  Parental  control  is  hardly  under- 
stood. There  is  no  remedy  nor  hope  for  the  future  but  in  a 
sound  system  of  moral  and  religious  education.  Those  who 
oppose  it,  and  unhappily  there  are  many,  are  no  friends  of 
the  African.  To  doom  a  vigorous  people  to  lie  submerged 
in  perpetual  ignorance  is  an  inhuman  policy.  But,  thank 
God,  the  flowing  tide  of  Christian  civilisation  is  not  to  be 
turned  back  by  the  paltry  broom  of  race  prejudice. 

On  Sunday  the  village  school  becomes  the  church,  and 
the  schoolmaster  mounts  his  rostrum  of  clay  as  the  village 
preacher.  He  is  not  hampered  by  any  traditional  ideas  of 
the  dignity  of  the  pulpit,  but  talks  with  easy  iamiliarity  and 
copious,  if  sometimes  incongruous,  illustrations.  He  will 
relate,  in  the  most  refreshing  manner,  the  escapades  of  his 
youth,  like  the  preacher  who  compared  a  wide-awake  con- 
science to  the  boy  who  keeps  guard  below  while  you  are  up 
the  tree  for  apples.  So  long  as  conscience'  keeps  watch 
you  are  safe  !  An  Ngoni  preacher,  treating  oi  the  persever- 
ance of  the  saints,  told  a  vivacious  story  of  how,  when  a 
boy,  he  had  been  employed  by  a  white  man  to  carry  three 
cats  in  a  basket  to  Kondowe.  It  was  a  light  load,  but  the 
white  man  impressed  on  him  the  need  of  exceptional  care. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  day's  march  one  of  the  cats  was  dead. 
Result,  a  big  blowing  up  and  fresh  injunctions  to  careful- 
ness. At  the  end  of  the  second  day  another  cat  was  dead, 
and,  when  the  basket  was  opened,  the  third  sprang  out  and 
ran  away.  The  unfortunate  preacher  had  to  admit  that  he 
followed  the  cat's  example  and  made  off,  returning  home 
empty  handed,  all  his  labour  lost.  On  the  basis  of  this 
story  he  built  the  grave  moral,  that  he  who  would  win  the 
rewards  of  virtue  must,  without  fail,  carry  his  cats  to 
KondowL 

One  may  smile  at  preaching  so  homely  and  naYve,  yet 
doubtless  it  often  reaches  the  heart  of  a  simple  and  primitive 


SCHOOLS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS  73 


people  when  the  more  ambitious  flights  of  the  white  mis- 
sionary do  but  pierce  the  clouds. 

The  intimate  connection  of  educational  and  religious  work 
among  the  natives  has  given  rise  to  a  widespread  and  mis- 
chievous error.  Every  native  who  has  attended  school, 
for  however  short  a  period,  is  known  henceforth  to  the  whites 
as  a  mission  boy.  On  an  average,  perhaps  one  in  twenty 
become  Church  members,  but  the  Mission  is  held  responsible 
for  the  behaviour  of  the  other  nineteen.  It  sometimes 
happens,  too,  that  ex-teachers,  dismissed  for  immorality,  get 
employment  as  clerks  and  are  regarded  as  sample  Christians. 
The  missionary,  on  his  side,  is  weary  of  explaining  the 
situation,  which  is  briefly  this,  that  the  native  who  passes 
himself  off  to  the  white  man  as  a  mission  boy  is  probably 
as  little  worthy  of  credit  as  the  pious  tramp  at  home  who 
hiccoughs  out,  "  Your  reverence,"  to  the  parson.  This 
fact  is  so  simple  and  obvious  that  failure  to  take  account  of 
it  is  hardly  excusable  in  a  person  of  intelligence.  Yet 
much  of  the  popular  criticism  of  the  results  of  Mission  work 
rests  on  no  other  foundation. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A  ROYAL  HOMECOMING. 

For  the  best  part  of  a  week  we  had  toiled  up  through  the 
hills  from  Karonga.  The  cycles  that  should  have  carried 
us  were  mostly  carried  on  the  heads  of  the  boys,  and  how 
the  men  with  the  heavy  loads  achieved  the  ascent  only 
themselves  knew.  We  were  a  rather  numerous  company, 
for  delegates  from  Mwenzo  had  been  present  at  the  Bandawe 
meetings,  and,  having  returned  by  boat  as  far  as  Karonga, 
had  rejoined  us  there  on  the  homeward  journey.  These 
worthy  elders  and  teachers  acted  as  our  carriers,  an  arrange- 
ment at  once  convenient  for  us  and  profitable  for  them. 

John's  wife  was  there  too,  with  Robert  and  Alick,  fine 
manly  boys,  as  well  as  little  Harry  and  baby  Nancy.  If 
the  question  be  asked,  "  Who  is  John  ?  "  the  answer  is  that 
there  has  never  been  but  one  John  in  Mwenzo :  John  the 
indispensable  and  chief  pillar  of  the  kirk.  A  Bandaw6  man, 
John  Abanda,  had  lived  for  the  past  twenty  years  among 
the  hills,  far  from  his  beloved  lake  shore,  and  given  his  life 
to  the  work  in  Mwenzo.  Any  day,  so  we  were  assured,  he 
could  have  walked  across  to  the  Boma  and  got  double 
the  salary  from  the  Government  that  he  received  from  the 
Mission,  but  he  stayed  on.  A  noble  type  of  those  worthy 
men  whom  the  Bandawe  Church  has  sent  out  to  the  south 
and  west  and  north  to  carry  the  light  of  the  Gospel  into  the 
Hinterland.  Much  as  John  Abanda  would  have  liked  to 
be  at  the  Bandaw6  meetings,  he  could  not  leave  the  station 
in  the  Doctor's  absence.  His  wife,  however,  has  been  visit- 
ing her  old  home,  and  is  now  on  her  way  back.  Cheerily 
she  plods  along  from  dawn  till  dusk,  with  baby  Nancy 
slung  now  on  her  side,  now  on  her  back.    About  the  second 

(74) 


A  ROYAL  HOMECOMING 


75 


or  third  day  little  Harry  goes  lame.  A  hundred  and  twenty 
nniles  over  mountains  higher  than  Ben  Nevis  is  rather  rough 
on  a  wee  fellow  of  six.  The  indomitable  mother  gathers 
him  up  in  her  arms  and  trudges  on  with  her  double  burden. 
Fortunately  there  is  an  empty  machila  which  has  been  taken 
for  emergencies.  Harry  is  bundled  into  it,  and  there  he  lies 
grinning  with  huge  delight.  No  doubt  he  thinks  it  is  a 
glorious  finish  to  his  holiday. 

On  the  second  day,  having  climbed  to  an  altitude  of  4500 
feet,  we  reached  Iwanda,  which  was  once  the  farthest  out- 
post of  the  Mission  before  Mwenzo  was  occupied.  Two 
lonely  graves  in  the  forest  remain  as  a  pathetic  memorial 
of  the  old  days.  Iwanda  is  now  an  out-station  of  Karonga, 
under  the  charge  of  a  native  teacher.  The  teacher  intro- 
duced himself  to  us  under  the  name  of  Robinson. 

"Crusoe?"  we  inquired. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  gratified  to  find  himself  so  well 
known. 

Where  did  he  come  by  so  remarkable  a  name  ?  He  had 
found  it,  he  said,  in  his  reading-book. 

Some  of  Robinson's  boys  were  guilty  of  a  slight  breach 
of  good  manners,  so  trivial  as  to  appear  unworthy  of  re- 
mark, yet  deserving  to  be  recorded  to  the  credit  of  the 
African  as  the  one  exception  that  proved  the  rule.  We 
three  were  seated  on  the  earthen  floor  of  the  school  partak- 
ing of  our  midday  meal,  when  some  faces  appeared  at  the 
open  window.  The  Doctor  turned  and  quietly  remarked 
in  the  native  tongue,  "  Do  you  not  see  that  we  are  eating?" 
In  a  moment  every  face  disappeared,  and  we  finished  our 
meal  in  peace.  After  months  of  life  in  open  camp,  one  is 
bound  to  say  that  on  no  other  occasion  was  there  the  least 
evidence  of  rudeness  or  vulgar  curiosity  at  meal  times.  So 
strict  is  the  native  etiquette  in  regard  to  this,  that  one  never 
caught  a  native  so  much  as  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 
table.  To  those  who  have  seen  only  the  town-bred  native 
in  the  cities  of  South  Africa  this  may  appear  incredible,  but 
the  African,  unspoiled  by  contact  with  the  white  man,  has, 
with  all  his  ignorance  and  barbarism,  his  own  code  of  good 
manners. 


76 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


In  the  afternoon  Robinson  led  us  by  a  bush  path  to  the 
foot  of  the  hill  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  school. 
There  in  a  thicket  we  found  the  graves.  One  was  glad  to 
mark  the  path  which  showed  that  they  were  not  wholly 
unvisited.  Pathetic  in  their  loneliness  they  seemed,  but 
most  peaceful,  with  no  sound  but  the  murmur  of  a  little 
stream  that  flows  down  from  the  hill  and  half-encircles  them. 
It  bears  the  musical  name  of  the  Mcherenj^,  and  so  home-like 
did  it  seem  that  one  could  have  fancied  it  was  splashing 
and  gurgling  down  a  Scottish  glen. 

At  Forthill  we  enjoyed  a  day  of  Sabbath  rest,  made 
doubly  grateful  by  the  toil  of  the  long  ascent.  The  people 
of  the  neighbouring  villages  gathered  in  considerable 
numbers  for  worship,  and  those  who  had  come  from  a  dis- 
tance camped  near  us  for  the  week-end.  After  darkness 
fell  the  gleam  of  their  watchfires  ringed  us  round  with  a 
cheery  glow  and  the  evening  was  spent  in  singing.  A  group 
of  teachers  at  one  of  the  fires  concluded  the  day  with  a  really 
fine  rendering  of  the  hymn — 

Son  of  my  soul,  Thou  Saviour  dear, 
It  is  not  night  if  Thou  be  near. 

Thereafter  each  man  wrapped  a  covering  about  his  head, 
and  lay  down  to  sleep  on  the  bare  ground.  It  was  inex- 
pressibly touching  to  listen  to  that  evening  hymn  sung 
within  hearing  of  the  fierce  prowlers  of  the  forest,  and  to 
watch  the  singers  lying  down  to  sleep  in  the  assurance  of 
divine  protection  even  in  these  wilds. 

On  Monday  we  reached  the  country  of  the  Winamwanga, 
and  the  Doctor's  spirits  rose  visibly.  He  expressed  his 
pleasure  at  being  once  more  among  respectably  dressed 
people.    The  nakedness  of  the  Wankonde  had  vexed  him. 

"  I  always  feel  that  our  Winamwanga  are  so  much  better 
dressed,"  he  said. 

As  the  only  difference  between  the  tribes  in  the  matter  of 
dress  is  that  the  women  and  girls  of  the  Winamwanga,  in 
addition  to  the  scanty  loin-cloth,  wear  an  apron  the  size  of 
a  pocket-handkerchief  fastened  on  behind,  the  Doctor's 
verdict  must  be  set  down  to  the  partiality  of  a  friend. 


A  ROYAL  HOMECOMING  77 


It  was  late  on  Tuesday  afternoon  when  we  reached 
Mwenzo.  News  of  our  coming  had  preceded  us,  and  from 
early  morning  the  people  had  been  pouring  out  of  the  way- 
side villages  and  making  the  forest  ring  with  the  Winam- 
wanga  welcome.  It  is  a  weird  production  which  must  be 
heard  to  be  appreciated.  As  soon  as  the  stranger  appears 
in  the  distance  all  the  women  and  children  utter  a  high- 
pitched,  piercing  note,  at  the  same  time  vibrating  the  tongue 
from  side  to  side  of  the  mouth,  and  pinching  their  cheeks 
rapidly  between  the  middle  finger  and  thumb  of  the  right, 
hand.  The  result  resembles  the  continuous  violent  blowing 
of  a  regiment  of  policemen's  whistles.  As  you  draw  nearer 
the  people  line  up  on  both  sides  of  the  path,  and  if  you  still 
face  the  music  and  advance  between  the  lines,  expecting 
your  ears  to  be  split,  they  suddenly  introduce  a  most  pleasing 
variation.  Dropping  on  their  knees  they  clap  gently  and 
rhythmically  with  their  hands.  As  soon  as  you  pass  they 
jump  up  and  resume  the  shrilling. 

When  these  unearthly  sounds  first  fell  without  warning 
on  my  startled  ear,  they  were  not  a  little  alarming,  till  I 
was  reassured  by  the  appearance  of  some  black  heads 
among  the  long  grass.  After  one  gets  used  to  it,  however, 
every  other  form  of  welcome  seems  tame  and  cold.  When 
one  goes  on  to  other  tribes  and  is  received  in  silence,  one 
feels  distinctly  slighted.  They  ought  to  have  screamed  at 
the  sight  of  us,  these  senseless  people.  Nothing  short  of  a 
universal  uproar,  we  feel,  is  worthy  of  our  august  presence. 

At  one  of  the  villages  the  women  and  girls  broke  into 
a  dance  of  welcome.  As  a  dance,  it  was  rather  a  dismal 
affair.  Slowly  they  shuffled  round  in  a  circle,  chanting 
monotonously  Aye-eh-alum-chusa,  all  the  while  they  kept 
twisting  and  wriggling  their  bodies  uneasily,  as  if  seeking 
relief  from  an  intolerable  itch.  Then  they  formed  in  line, 
and  two  withered  grandmothers  stepped  out  in  front  and 
shuffled  through  a  duet.  While  the  dance  was  proceeding, 
the  Doctor,  who  seemed  to  know  everybody,  pointed  out  a 
notable  pair  of  brothers,  Kaputa  and  Kawombw^.  Kaputa's 
head  and  face  showed  several  long  white  scars,  the  memorial 
of  his  escape  and  of  his  brother's  courage.    The  two  were 


78  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


working  together  in  their  garden  when  a  leopard  sprang  on 
Kaputa  and  tore  him  down.  Kawombw6  rushed  to  the 
rescue,  and,  grasping  the  leopard  b}^  the  tail,  tried  to  drag 
it  off.  Then  snatching  up  a  native  hoe,  about  the  size  and 
weight  of  an  adze,  he  struck  so  fierce  a  blow  that  the 
leopard's  spine  was  broken.  Under  the  Doctors  care 
Kaputa  recovered,  and  there  they  were,  two  quiet,  pawky 
old  men,  with  a  double  bond  of  blood  between  them. 

In  the  afternoon  we  crossed  the  frontier  from  Nyasaland 
to  the  extreme  apex  of  North-Eastern  Rhodesia,  and  ran 
on  to  Fife,  the  remotest  outpost  of  our  Empire  in  Africa. 
How  extraordinary  an  organisation  this  Empire  of  ours  is ! 
Here  at  the  back  of  the  wilds  is  planted  down  a  British 
magistrate,  charged  among  other  duties  with  the  oversight 
of  customs,  and  provided  with  all  the  necessary  forms  and 
schedules.  Coming  as  we  did  from  Nyasaland,  we  must 
halt  and  declare  our  goods,  and  pay  what  might  be 
required  of  us.  Probably  the  travellers  along  that  route 
could  be  numbered  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  yet  a 
paternal  Government  had  foreseen  the  possibility  of  our 
coming,  and  had  thoughtfully  provided  for  us  a  schedule. 
But  there  are  conditions  under  which  even  officialism 
cannot  repress  humanity.  Mr.  Jones  was  unfeignedly  glad 
to  see  us,  as  we  were  to  see  him.  He  gathered  for  us  the 
few  strawberries  that  his  garden  produced,  a  rare  treat  in 
Central  Africa,  and  sent  us  on  our  way  refreshed. 

After  this  brief  taste  of  civilisation  we  resumed  our 
progress  through  the  villages.  From  Fife  to  Mwenzo  is 
only  a  matter  of  five  miles,  and  along  these  five  miles  the 
welcome  of  the  people  reached  its  height.  Our  home- 
coming was  a  triumphal  procession.  Scholars  and  teachers 
came  far  out  the  road  to  meet  us.  As  soon  as  the  first 
scouts  caught  sight  of  us,  they  raised  their  shrill  cry,  which, 
being  echoed  by  those  behind  and  passed  on  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  must  have  reached  Mwenzo  in  a  few  minutes. 
Thereafter  there  was  continuous  shrilling,  clapping  of 
hands,  and  beating  of  drums,  all  the  way  home.  Each 
successiv-e  group,  as  we  passed  them,  fell  in  behind  and 
joined  in  hymn-singing,  while  the  road  in  front  was  still 


A  ROYAL  HOMECOMING 


79 


black  with  an  oncoming  stream  of  people.  Down  that 
stream  a  sturdy  native  girl  came  running  with  a  little 
white  child  on  her  back.  It  was  my  first  sight  of  dear  wee 
Maisie,  the  sunbeam  of  Mwenzo.  The  nurse-girl  dropped 
on  her  knees  at  the  Doctor's  feet  and  clung  to  him  for  a 
moment,  while  Maisie  scrambled  tumultuously  into  her 
father's  arms. 

We  pushed  on  up  the  hill  towards  the  Mission-house. 
Near  the  top  we  were  met  by  a  group  of  lads  swinging 
along  at  a  rare  rate  and  singing  lustily.  They  proved  to 
be  the  apprentices  from  the  joiners  shop.  "What  is  that 
hymn  they  are  singing  ?  "  I  said  to  myself.  The  tune  is 
so  familiar."  Then  it  flashed  upon  me — John  Brown's 
body  !  "  It  was  a  glorious  anticlimax.  My  heart  had 
been  in  my  mouth  a  hundred  times  that  day,  which  made 
me  all  the  quicker  to  enjoy  this  delicious  interlude.  The 
song  had  just  come  out,  and  was  in  the  first  flush  of 
its  popularity.  Some  boy  returning  from  the  mines  had 
brought  home  a  mangled  version  of  it,  which  immediately 
caught  on,  and  soon  everybody  was  wailing  drearily  in 
Chinamwanga  that  Johanne  Brown  was  dead  and  buried. 
The  Doctor,  in  sheer  self-defence,  was  compelled  to  offer  a 
decent  translation,  and  this  was  now  being  rendered  in 
honour  of  his  return.  A  few  minutes  later  the  weary,  dust- 
choked  travellers  had  received  a  final  and  crowning  welcome 
at  the  Mission-house,  followed  by  the  luxury  of  great  warm 
baths. 

Lest  it  should  be  thought  that  all  this  native  demonstra- 
tion was  a  mere  blowing-off  of  steam,  let  me  reverently 
draw  aside  for  a  moment  the  veil  from  the  welcome  which 
these  same  people  once  gave,  on  this  same  road,  to  their 
beloved  Doctor.  He  had  been  at  the  Council,  and  was 
hastening  home,  for  the  sad  news  had  reached  him  that  his 
first-born,  a  sweet  baby  girl,  was  dead.  The  villagers, 
according  to  their  custom,  came  out  to  meet  him,  but  when 
he  appeared  not  a  sound  was  uttered.  Sad-eyed  and 
motionless  they  stood  waiting.  As  he  approached  and 
began  to  pass  through  the  midst  of  them,  they  bowed 
down,  and,  instead  of  the  hearty  hand-clap,  every  head  w«^s» 


8o  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


laid  in  silence  in  the  dust.  One  wondered  why  Nancy  was 
so  popular  a  name  among  the  girls  of  Mvvenzo,  but  when 
one  heard  the  story  of  little  white  Nancy,  then  one 
understood. 

"  I  dwell  among  mine  own  people,"  said  the  Shunammite 
when  it  was  proposed  to  her  to  better  her  condition. 
Many  have  marvelled  at  the  strange  indifference  to  worldly 
ambition  displayed  by  medical  missionaries  who  are  content 
to  forego  the  prizes  of  their  profession  and  subsist  in  savage 
places  on  a  fraction  of  the  income  they  might  earn  at 
home.  Yet  one  saw  most  clearly  that  day  on  the  road  to 
Mwenzo  that  there  are  prizes  to  be  won  of  another  sort. 
To  win  an  imperishable  place  in  the  affections  of  a  simple 
people,  to  change  the  current  of  their  history  and  guide 
their  steps  into  the  ways  of  peace,  is  a  work  for  the  sake 
of  which  any  man,  even  the  greatest,  might  count  the 
world  well  lost.  It  offers  a  career  in  which  a  good  man 
will  surely  find  enduring  satisfaction  and  rest  of  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


A  HIGHLAND  PARISH. 

MwENZO  the  Africans  themselves  call  it,  and  it  stands  high 
up  on  the  great  plateau  between  the  north  end  of  blue 
Nyasa  and  the  south  end  of  Tanganyika — the  "  lake  beyond 
the  hills  ".  Mwenzo  means  "  the  heart,"  and  probably  the 
name  was  given  because  it  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  mighty 
watersprings.  From  here  the  spine  of  Africa  runs  down 
towards  the  south,  as  clearly  defined  as  the  ridge  of  the 
High  Street  in  Edinburgh.  A  little  to  the  east  of  Mwenzo 
one  may  stand  on  the  summit  of  the  watershed,  at  an  alti- 
tude of  6000  feet,  and  look  back  over  the  vast  wooded  valley 
of  the  Luangwa  to  the  dim  hills  of  Ngoniland,  140  miles 
away.  The  Luangwa  drains  into  the  Zambesi  and  eastward 
to  the  Indian  Ocean.  A  few  yards  farther  on  another  great 
expanse  of  forest  is  seen  stretching  away  to  the  west.  Here 
are  the  head- waters  of  the  Congo  which  flows  to  the  Atlantic. 
Beyond  the  hills  to  the  north  the  waters  begin  to  find  their 
outlet  towards  the  valley  of  the  Nile.  So  they  have  called 
it  Mwenzo  because  it  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  great  waters. 

But  Mwenzo  might  well  have  earned  its  name  from  the 
warm  heart  of  its  people  : — 

Nowhere  beats  the  heart  so  kindly 
As  beneath  the  Highland  plaid. 

Few,  alas,  of  the  Winamwanga  can  boast  of  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  Highland  plaid,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  about 
the  kindly  heart-beat.  And  surely  it  was  the  happiest 
Providence  that  sent  among  them  the  Doctor  and  his  fair 
lady,  who,  coming  themselves  from  the  capital  of  the  Scottish 
Highlands,  so  perfectly  understand,  and  respond  to,  and 

(81)  6 


82 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


exemplify  the  courtesy  and  kindliness  of  the  Highland 
heart.  If  the  educated  native  by  the  lake  shore  speaks 
English  with  an  Aberdeen  accent,  as  is  credibly  affirmed, 
one  may  venture  to  add  that  the  plaintive  music  of  the  Celt 
is  to  be  detected  in  the  speech  of  the  Winamwanga. 

A  foreigner  is  always  apt  to  appear  a  ridiculous  creature. 
His  halting  utterance,  his  meagre  vocabulary,  his  broken 
grammar,  give  an  impression  of  childishness  and  make  it 
hard  to  realise  that  behind  these,  struggling  vainly  to  break 
through  them,  there  may  be  real  virility  of  thought  and 
refinement  of  feeling.  The  prevailingly  low  estimate  of  the 
mental  and  moral  qualities  of  the  African  has  doubtless  been 
formed  in  this  way.  In  contact  with  men  of  a  superior  race, 
of  whose  language  he  knows  but  the  merest  smattering,  he 
cannot  express  what  is  in  him,  and  to  unsympathetic  eyes 
he  looks  a  senseless  block.  Only  in  his  own  tongue  and 
among  his  own  people  can  he  express  his  humour,  vivacity, 
courtesy,  affection,  reverence.  Hence  arises,  in  opposition 
to  the  senseless-block  theory,  the  completely  contradictory 
verdict  of  those  who  have  been  patient  students  of  the  Afri- 
can, have  lived  with  him  and  loved  him.  These,  as  they 
dig  deeper  into  the  mine,  continually  discover  new  treasures 
of  thought  and  feeling,  and  receive  ever  fresh  impressions 
of  the  richness  and  variety  of  the  African's  mental  life. 

The  Winamwanga  exhibit  many  gracious  manners  and 
ways  of  speech.  It  was  among  them  that  we  first  heard 
the  fond  injunction  to  "  keep  the  home  fires  burning  ".  It 
was  Kalulu's  wife  who  said  it.  We  had  picked  him  up  at  a 
village  to  be  cycle-boy  on  the  long  trek  to  the  south,  and 
as  we  were  moving  off  a  comely  young  matron  appeared 
with  a  baby  slung  on  her  back.  We  thought  she  had  come 
to  stop  him,  as  the  wives  had  a  habit  of  doing.  But  no, 
she  said  she  was  quite  willing  he  should  go.  Then,  turning 
to  Kalulu,  she  uttered  some  words  in  Chinamwanga. 

"  Do  you  know  what  she  said  ?"  remarked  the  Doctor. 
"  She  said,  '  Good-bye,  my  husband.  Do  not  let  the  fire 
go  out ' — the  fire  of  his  heart's  love." 

A  charming  farewell,  truly,  and  almost  incredible  as  ad- 
dressed to  a  naked  savage.    Yet  Kalulu,  we  found  in  the 


A  HIGHLAND  PARISH 


83 


weeks  that  followed,  had  a  heart  in  which  fires  of  kindness 
and  humour  sparkled  and  burned. 

Coo-cooing  is  another  pretty  custom  of  the  Winamwanga. 
When  friends  meet  they  place  their  hands  on  each  others 
shoulders,  and,  by  way  of  salutation  say,  "coo-coo,"  like  a 
pair  of  turtle  doves.  Nor  is  the  language  of  politeness 
awanting.  "  Have  you  slept  well  ? "  asks  the  host  in  the 
humble  hut.  To  which  his  guest  replies  courteously,  "  You 
have  guarded  me  through  the  night ".  It  is  considered 
highly  improper  for  a  man  to  meet  his  relatives-in-law. 
When  they  visit  his  wife  he  must  keep  out  of  the  way.  This 
is  doubtless  a  relic  of  the  days  when  marriage  was  by  capture 
from  a  hostile  tribe.  From  this  custom  arises  a  novel  way 
of  dealing  with  a  boisterous  wind.  When  the  wind  rises 
and  threatens  to  unroof  the  hut,  the  owner  steps  outside, 
and,  wetting  the  tips  of  his  first  and  fourth  fingers  to  make 
himself  invisible,  he  points  these  fingers  at  the  wind  and 
cries  out,  "  Your  mother-in-law  is  here".  Whereupon  the 
wind  flies  off  in  another  direction  ! 

We  spent  a  memorable  week  at  Mwenzo,  largely  occu- 
pied, as  was  fitting,  with  an  old-fashioned  Highland  com- 
munion. On  Wednesday  the  people  began  to  come  troop- 
ing in,  bringing  their  provisions  with  them.  Those  who 
could  not  find  accommodation  in  the  neighbouring  villages 
built  grass  shelters  for  themselves  around  the  church.  The 
old  school-church  being  quite  insufficient  for  the  meetings, 
a  square  stockade  was  erected  at  the  side  of  the  building, 
lined  round  with  eight-foot  high  grass,  and  there,  every  day, 
morning  and  afternoon,  a  congregation  gathered  of  600  to 
1000. 

The  collections  taken  were  mostly  in  kind,  although 
there  was  an  orthodox  plate  for  money,  and  one  day  a  boy, 
just  home  from  the  mines,  handed  in  a  sovereign  for  the 
building  of  the  new  church.  A  huge  rough  box  stood  in 
front  of  the  speakers'  platform,  into  which  the  women  poured 
baskets  of  grain.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  African  that 
no  attempt  was  made  to  keep  the  different  kinds  of  grain 
separate,  but  beans  and  monkey-nuts  were  mingled  with 
milesi  and  amasaka.    After  the  service  the  elders  proceeded 


86  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


had  done  for  them  through  her  Mission.  Then  he  gave 
out  in  Chinamwanga  the  hymn,  "  God  be  with  you  till  we 
meet  again,"  which  was  sung  to  the  old  familiar  tune.  I 
confess  I  was  deeply  touched.  A  congregation  in  Scotland 
had  sung  the  same  hymn  when  I  took  leave  of  them,  and 
here  was  a  congregation  in  the  heart  of  Africa  singing  it 
and  making  me  feel  as  if  I  were  leaving  home  again.  So 
full  is  the  world  of  kindly  hearts.  "Till  we  meet  again," 
so  they  sang.  Never  in  this  world  can  I  hope  to  see  them 
again,  but  never  can  I  possibly  forget  them.  And  when 
at  last  they  shall  come  from  the  east  and  from  the  west  and 
from  the  north  and  from  the  south,  one  rejoices  to  believe 
there  will  be  friends  not  a  few  from  Mwenzo. 

Within  a  few  weeks  the  war  had  broken  out,  and,  strangely 
enough,  the  Winamwanga  were  among  the  first  to  feel  the 
storm.  The  Doctor,  on  hurrying  across  to  his  friend  the 
magistrate  at  Fife,  found  him  drilling  half  a  dozen  native 
police,  his  total  force,  while  the  Germans  were  reported  to 
be  advancing  with  a  field  gun  and  savage  hordes  of  Ruga- 
ruga,  The  situation  was  hopeless,  and  the  Rhodesian 
Government,  unable  to  send  support,  ordered  the  abandon- 
ment of  all  the  country  for  1 00  miles  back  from  the 
frontier — another  Belgium  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the 
Huns.  As  Mwenzo  is  but  nine  miles  from  the  frontier  the 
peril  was  imminent,  and  the  Doctor,  his  family,  and  people 
were  compelled  to  take  refuge  in  the  bush.  The  faithful 
John  Abanda,  however,  stayed  on.  War  or  no  war,  he  had 
his  beloved  church  to  roof  There  also  the  situation  was 
critical.  For  unless  the  roof  were  on  before  the  rainy 
season  the  walls  of  sun-dried  brick  would  dissolve  into  mud. 
Mwenzo  stands  high  and  commands  a  wide  view  over  the 
surrounding  country.  At  night  John  slept  in  the  bush,  and 
in  the  morning,  after  making  sure  that  the  coast  was  clear, 
he  hurried  on  with  the  roofing.  The  store  was  plundered, 
the  neighbouring  villages  were  raided  and  blood  was  shed, 
but  the  heroic  fellow  stuck  to  his  task,  and  before  the  rains 
broke  the  church  was  roofed. 

After  twenty-two  months  of  exile  the  people  of  Mwenzo 
returned  and  found  the  church  intact,    The  German  com- 


A  HIGHLAND  PARISH 


87 


mander,  to  do  him  justice,  had  said  to  his  followers,  "  I  have 
no  quarrel  with  the  church.  Leave  it  alone."  A  service 
of  dedication  was  held,  and  a  communion,  the  first  since  we 
parted  from  them.  Alas,  the  man  who  had  the  best  right 
to  be  there  was  absent.  John  Abanda  had  caught  fever 
and  died.  But  an  event  happened  of  strange  and  thrilling 
interest.  From  the  northern  section  of  the  tribe,  now 
delivered  from  German  tyranny,  there  marched  in  on  the 
appointed  day  a  little  company  of  native  Christians  who 
had  come  to  celebrate  their  brotherhood  in  the  faith  and 
their  re-union  as  a  people  at  the  Christian  feast  of  love. 
It  is  probably  the  only  instance  yet  recorded  where  former 
subjects  of  Britain  and  of  Germany  have  thus  met  in  holy 
fellowship,  and  it  is  remarkable  that  it  should  have  happened 
in  the  heart  of  Darkest  Africa. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


MAISIE  AND  HER  FRIENDS. 

Pretty  fair-haired  Ivonne  J  alia  has  her  home  among  the 
Barotse,  far  up  the  Zambesi,  above  the  Victoria  F'alls.  When 
her  parents  were  going  on  furlough  to  their  native  Wal- 
densian  valleys,  little  Ivonne  asked  if  the  children  there 
were  black,  and  when  they  said  No,"  she  burst  into  tears 
at  the  dreadful  prospect  of  a  land  where  the  children  were  all 
white.  One  was  not  surprised  to  hear  the  story  from  her 
mother,  for  black  and  white  make  the  jolliest  of  playmates. 
Maisie  and  Harry  at  Mwenzo  were  inseparable,  and  one  re- 
calls many  pretty  pictures  of  them.  The  day  of  our  home- 
coming, when  Maisie  came  to  meet  us,  after  she  had  hugged 
her  father,  she  ran  to  Harry,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for 
weeks,  and  coo-cooed  "  him  in  the  most  delightful  fashion. 
Every  day  they  played  together  in  the  garden,  all  unconscious 
of  the  gulf  that  would  slowly  widen  and  yawn  between 
them.  "  A  perfect  little  gentleman,"  was  the  emphatic 
verdict  of  Maisie's  mother  when  questioned  about  Harry. 
No,  she  could  not  wish  a  nicer  playmate  for  her  child,  so 
careful  was  he  and  so  loyal. 

Maisie  is  the  darling  of  the  Winamwanga,  a  sweet,  re- 
sourceful little  lady,  who  rules  her  devoted  subjects  with  easy 
sway.  Perfectly  familiar  with  every  native  idiom  and  shade 
of  expression,  she  is  capable  of  taking  the  Doctor  to  task 
after  his  sermon.  "  Father,  you  said  so  and  so,"  glibly 
uttering  some  weird  combination  of  sounds. 

"And  what  should  I  have  said?"  replies  the  Doctor 
meekly.  "  You  should  have  said  this,"  repeating  the  words 
with  some  imperceptible  change  of  inflection. 

I  fell  an  easy  prey  to  her  ladyship.    We  sat  down  to  a 

(88) 


MAISIE  AND  HER  FRIENDS 


89 


game  of  Halma.  After  a  few  moves  I  remarked  with  stupid 
condescension,  ''You  are  a  wise  little  girl.  I  see  that  you 
can  play." 

"You  needn't  say  that,"  replied  the  little  maid  serenely, 
"  for  I  am  wiser  than  you  think."  And  so  she  was,  for  she 
won  the  game. 

In  the  flight  from  the  Germans  Maisie  was  lost.  She 
had  been  carried  by  mistake  to  the  wrong  village.  After 
hours  of  anxious  search  her  father  found  her  sitting  in  a 
native  hut  and  quite  at  home.  "  Why  have  you  been  so 
long  of  coming?"  she  said.  "I  was  thinking  of  sending 
somebody  to  look  for  you."  That  was  Maisie  all  over, 
innocent,  serene,  fearless.  And  indeed  what  had  she  to  fear, 
when  every  one  of  these  black  men  around  her  would  sooner 
have  died  than  have  harm  come  to  a  hair  of  her  head. 

In  certain  circles  in  South  i^frica  a  deep  mistrust  of  the 
native  prevails.  Children,  it  is  affirmed,  are  never  safe  in 
their  charge,  not  for  an  hour.  This  spirit  is  conspicuously 
absent  in  missionary  circles  and  with  no  disastrous  result. 
Love  wakens  in  response  to  love,  and  trust  meets  the  re- 
ward of  loyalty.  Especially  in  remoter  parts  the  children 
of  the  Mission-house  have  none  but  native  playmates,  and 
very  tender  links  are  forged  that  bind  the  missionary  to  his 
people.  One  cherishes  delicious  memories  of  these  un- 
conscious little  missionaries,  wise  beyond  their  years, 
shrewdly  observant  and  original  in  their  ways,  and  daily  in 
danger  of  being  spoiled  by  an  adoring  people.  One  re- 
members dear  wee  Tommy  Innes  gazing  in  wonder  at  the 
unfamiliar  process  of  shaving,  and  then  remarking  with  great 
gravity,  ''  My  father  does  not  wash  that  end  of  his  face  ". 
One  remembers  also  two  tiny  maidens,  one  from  South,  and 
one  from  Central  Africa,  discussing  the  subject  of  snakes. 
"Our  snakes  run  after  you,"  quoth  Peggy  with  dilating 
eyes,  "  and  bite  you  and  kill  you."  To  which  Monica  replies 
airily,  "  Our  snakes  are  the  other  way  about.  They  run  away 
from  you."  "  Our  snakes  "  was  delightfully  characteristic  of 
the  proprietary  rights  which  these  little  people  assume  over 
every  living  thing.  Even  snakes  are  included  in  their 
kingdom. 


go 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Hardly  if  at  all  less  interesting  were  their  little  black 
friends  and  playmates.  They  bear  a  ridiculously  close  re- 
semblance to  the  children  of  the  home-land.  With  but 
little  imagination  they  might  be  taken  for  the  same,  with 
faces  more  thoroughly  blackened  than  usual  and  all  super- 
fluous clothing  discarded.  The  black  baby  sits  on  the 
ground,  like  his  white  brother,  solemnly  investigating  straws 
and  chewing  everything  within  his  reach.  The  howl  of 
genuine  horror  with  which  he  greets  the  apparition  of  a 
white  face  is  most  instructive,  though  humbling.  It  is  good 
to  see  ourselves  as  others,  even  black  babies,  see  us.  We 
had  hitherto  looked  on  black  faces  with  a  complete  sense  of 
complacency.  It  had  never  occurred  to  us  even  to  put  the 
question  whether  any  could  prefer  a  black  face  to  a  white. 
But  Master  Baby  suddenly  vociferates,  "  I  do,"  and  he  hides 
in  a  dusky  bosom  from  the  sight  of  your  pale  hideousness. 
His  black  sister  watches  over  him  with  anxious,  motherly 
care,  and  when  relieved  of  her  charge  she  plays  at  houses  in 
the  most  approved  girlish  way.  She  builds  the  tiny  walls 
of  clay  and  decorates  them  with  some  sort  of  whitewash. 
Inside  she  makes  a  fireplace,  consisting  of  two  hobs  of  clay 
like  upturned  flowerpots,  all  in  imitation  of  her  mother's 
hut.  Here,  with  a  few  broken  earthen  pots  for  furniture, 
she  will  amuse  herself  through  the  long  sunny  hours.  Very 
shy  is  she  at  first,  but,  when  her  confidence  is  gained,  very 
winning  and  affectionate.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  choir  of 
tiny  singers  at  Mwenzo,  the  two  Jessies  and  little  Emily  and 
the  others,  all  Maisie's  friends  and  mine,  how  we  sang  for 
the  hundreth  time,  with  marching  and  hand-clapping,  the 
Winamwanga  version  of  "  A  hunting  we  will  go  ".  A  most 
innocent  version  it  was,  and  ran  thus:  '*We  will  hunt  the 
rabbit,  we  will  catch  it,  we  will  take  it  home,  and  then 
we'll  let  it  go."  Far  away  in  Broken  Hill  the  memory  of 
that  childish  song  brought  a  smile  to  the  face  of  a  Mwenzo 
carrier,  down  with  fever  and  writhing  in  pain.  May  we 
never  be  less  happy  than  we  were  then. 

Boys,  of  course,  will  be  boys  all  the  world  over,  but  not 
till  they  are  seen  in  black  nakedness,  sparring,  tripping,  and 
larking,  does  one  realise  the  absolutely  ineradicable  essence 


l-ITTLE  HOUSEWIVES 


[P.  90 


KAPUTA  AND  KAWOMBVVE 


[P-  77 


mm 


iN    KAFW  iMBK  fS   Sl  UCKADE 


IP.  105 


MAISIE  AND  HER  FRIENDS  91 


of  universal  boy  nature.  At  every  village  they  used  to 
gather  round,  thrusting  themselves  among  their  elders  and 
listening  open  mouthed  to  the  colloquy  between  the  Doctor 
and  the  chiefs.  Happening  on  one  occasion  to  see  a  naked 
urchin  standing  in  front  of  the  rest  and  particularly  absorbed 
in  the  conversation,  I  playfully  pinched  his  ear.  Quick  as 
thought  he  drew  his  fist  and  wheeled  round  on  me,  only  to 
shrink  abashed  as  suddenly  when  he  saw  his  mistake.  The 
shout  of  derisive  laughter  from  his  chums  that  greeted  his 
discomfiture  was  genuinely  boyish.  Be  sure  the  whole 
village  would  hear  the  story  of  how  black  Tommy  was 
going  to  spar  with  the  Mzungu. 

Sometimes  in  an  idle  hour  I  amused  myself  by  writing  on 
the  chest  or  back  of  a  few  of  the  boys  some  inscription  or 
design.  A  hard  straw  makes  a  whitish  mark  on  their  black 
skin,  very  like  the  mark  made  by  a  pencil  on  a  slate.  The 
boys  who  were  thus  adorned  would  delightedly  examine  one 
another,  and  then  march  off  proudly  to  exhibit  themselves 
about  the  village. 

The  cycle  was  an  endless  source  of  interest.  Occasionally 
some  of  the  older  boys  volunteered  to  wheel  it,  and  once  a 
daring  spirit  ventured  to  mount,  but  as  soon  as  the  cycle 
began  to  move  he  dived  frantically  into  the  long  grass. 
Our  departure  from  a  village  in  the  morning  had  all  the 
commotion  and  excitement  of  a  circus  procession. 

Frequently  there  is  a  bit  of  decent  path  out  of  the  village, 
where  one  can  spin  along  for  a  few  hundred  yards.  We 
would  mount  and  ride  off  at  a  snail's  pace.  Immediately 
the  long-legged  boys  would  rush  on  in  front  to  show  how 
they  could  race  the  cycle.  Then  the  girls,  too,  when  they 
saw  how  easy  it  looked,  began  to  get  in  front,  and  among 
them  were  generally  some  stout  young  matrons  lumping 
along  with  babies  on  their  backs.  When  they  had  all  got 
settled  down  in  the  track  the  cyclist  would  suddenly  ring 
his  bell  and  rush  forward  at  top  speed.  It  was  like  the 
sudden  dash  of  a  motor-car  scattering  a  flock  of  chickens. 
With  shouts  and  screams  they  leaped  aside  into  the  grass, 
and  when  they  found  they  were  not  really  killed  they 
had  the  sensation  of  a  lifetime.    Occasionally,  if  the  path 


92  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


continued  good,  the  whole  performance  was  repeated,  and 
then  with  farewell  clapping  of  hands  they  returned  to  the 
village. 

It  all  lives  in  one's  memory  as  a  sunny  time  among  a 
simple,  kindly  people,  whom  it  was  easy  to  love.  One 
might  have  fancied  that  the  child-life  of  the  villages  was 
for  ever  merry  and  care-free,  had  not  one  caught  glimpses 
and  hints  of  the  dark  underside.  The  primitive  hut  can 
never  be  a  home.  The  older  boys  of  the  village  are  herded 
together  in  the  boys'  hut,  and  the  older  girls  in  the  girls' 
hut,  whereby  is  bred  licence  and  a  premature  knowledge  of 
sin.  The  fine  meshed  net  of  heathen  custom  early  closes 
round  and  holds  them  fast.  So  much  the  more  deeply  did 
one  feel  the  need  of  rescuing  all  this  wealth  and  winsome- 
ness  of  young  life  from  the  dread  gulf  of  ignorance  and 
superstition  into  which,  if  unaided,  it  is  doomed  to  sink. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  LITTLE  GREY  THREAD. 

We  are  on  the  road  again,  travelling  south.  The  Doctor 
has  been  commissioned  to  prospect  for  the  site  of  a  new 
Mission-station.  In  a  week  we  hope  to  reach  Chinsali,  in 
three  weeks,  Chitambo.  Our  route  lies  along  the  great 
plateau  of  North-Eastern  Rhodesia,  a  broad  ridge  which 
forms  the  backbone  of  Central  Africa.  It  rises  out  of  a 
wide  sea  of  forest,  and  down  its  sloping  sides  the  streams 
flow — on  the  right  hand  to  the  Congo,  on  the  left  to  the 
Zambesi.  Through  the  trees  one  catches  glimpses,  now  to 
the  east  now  to  the  west,  of  far-spreading  wooded  valleys, 
and  occasionally  from  some  abrupt  rocky  eminence  an 
immense  view  is  had  of  forest,  forest,  leagues  of  forest. 
Surveying  such  a  scene  one  has  the  exhilarating  sensation 
of  standing  on  the  roof  of  the  Continent.  The  slope  of  the 
plateau  is  towards  the  south,  so  that  with  gentle  undulations 
it  sinks  a  thousand  feet  from  Mwenzo  to  Chitambo.  The 
monotonous  succession  of  rolling  ridge  and  dambo  is  far 
different  from  the  rugged  contour  of  the  hills  about  Lake 
Nyasa.  Pawky  old  Kayira,  the  Professor's  henchman,  sighs 
and  says,  "  Ah,  what  a  happy  home  we  have  in  Nyasaland, 
up  and  down,  up  and  down  ". 

Along  this  ridge  the  Cape  to  Cairo  railway  will  thunder 
presently,  up  through  the  hinterland  of  German  East  Africa, 
up  through  Uganda  and  down  the  Nile.  But  as  yet  the 
only  road  is  a  little  grey  thread  that  winds  through  the 
forest.  It,  too,  has  a  wonder  all  its  own.  Worn  by  the 
soft  tread  of  naked  feet,  it  has  never  an  inch  of  superfluous 
width.  Modesty  and  persistence  are  its  distinguishing 
marks.    Rarely  visible  for  more  than  a  few  yards  at  a 

(93) 


94  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


time,  overhung  by  the  rank  grass,  winding  in  and  out 
among  the  trees,  threatening  to  expire  round  the  next  bend, 
always  yielding  but  always  persisting,  it  conquers  the 
illimitable  forest  and  guides  the  traveller  to  his  destination. 
Here  is  a  little  segment  of  it.  Emerging  from  behind  that 
tree  in  the  most  casual  way  and  disappearing  round  this 
other,  it  seems  to  signify  nothing  and  lead  nowhere,  a  mere 
line  one  might  step  over  unnoticed,  yet  patiently  follow  it 
and  it  will  lead — that  way  to  Cairo,  this  way  to  the  Cape. 
It  is  a  gross  mistake  to  speak  of  the  pathless  forest.  The 
forest  is  a  network  of  little  threads  like  this,  running  from 
village  to  village  as  true  as  a  turnpike  road.  When  a 
village  shifts,  the  little  grey  threads  alter  their  course,  but 
they  are  always  there.  The  making  and  mending  of  them 
is  in  wonderful  harmony  with  the  primeval  silence  of  the 
wilds.  With  never  a  click  of  roadman's  hammer,  nor 
angular  quartz,  nor  ponderous  crushing  wheels,  but  by  the 
soft,  soft  pad  of  naked  feet  the  path  is  made.  Not  more 
silently  does  the  hand  of  Nature  obliterate  the  deserted 
path.  Mysteriously  the  old  is  gone  and  the  new  is  come 
in  its  place  without  the  disturbance  of  a  forest  leaf.  Not 
so  does  the  white  man  construct  his  road  of  steel,  but  tear- 
ing up,  crashing  down,  thundering,  bursting  outrageously 
through. 

It  has  been  set  down  to  the  indolence  of  the  African  that 
his  forest  path  winds  round  every  obstacle  and  never  boldly 
thrusts  it  aside.  A  few  days  on  the  path  brings  one  into 
perfect  sympathy  with  the  African.  The  obstacle  is  prob- 
ably a  fallen  tree,  too  heavy  to  be  moved.  Even  if  it  be 
lighter  it  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  the  weary  wayfarer, 
with  a  long  road  in  front  of  him,  and  perhaps  an  anxious  eye 
on  the  declining  sun,  shall  forthwith  lay  down  his  load  and 
clear  the  path  for  the  unknown  man  who  is  to  follow.  Let 
the  righteous  person,  who  has  removed  every  banana  skin 
from  the  pavement,  and  shut  every  gate  behind  him,  cast 
the  first  stone.  Besides,  it  is  the  African's  way.  Like  his 
forest  path  he  bends  but  he  persists.  Through  ages  of 
oppression,  of  slavery,  of  the  dominance  of  superior  races 
he  has  persisted,  and  like  his  path  he  will  win  through  to 


THE  LITTLE  GREY  THREAD  95 


the  end.  No  fear  of  his  disappearance.  Out  through  all 
the  tangle  of  history  he  will  make  his  way  and  emerge  at 
last. 

It  is  the  finest  big  game  country  in  the  world  we  are 
traveli  ng  through.  But  the  formidable  denizens  of  the 
forest  are  entirely  invisible.  On  the  approach  of  the  noisy 
line  of  carriers  they  quietly  clear  out  or  lie  low,  and  we  jog 
along  the  path  with  hardly  a  thought  of  their  presence.  Re- 
ports of  them  are  frequent.  In  this  village  the  headman  is 
from  home  disposing  of  the  lion's  skin  they  killed  yesterday. 
In  that  other  village  a  lion  suddenly  jumped  in  this  after- 
noon and  picked  up  a  dog.  More  serious  news  comes  from 
a  district  to  the  south,  where  three  men  have  been  killed. 
These  stories  tend  to  get  on  the  carriers'  nerves  as  they  sit 
round  the  camp  fire  at  night  and  tell  the  tales  in  their  own 
dramatic  way.  'The  lion  looked  up  the  tree  and  said, 
'Who  is  that  up  there?  I  will  get  him  too,'  and  it  clawed 
him  down."  But  these  lurid  tales  are  all  forgotten  in  the 
morning  sun,  and  they  take  the  road  again  without  mis- 
giving. A  few  insignificant  footprints  on  the  path  are 
interpreted  to  mean  that  a  leopard  has  just  passed.  Oc- 
casionally the  sharp,  heavy  hoof  of  the  rhino  is  met,  or  the 
ponderous  spoor  of  the  elephant.  But  still  nothing  is  seen, 
and  even  a  long  morning  of  careful  stalking  in  the  dambos 
may  be  without  result.  On  the  other  hand  you  may  run 
into  a  lion  round  the  next  corner,  but  until  it  happens  >  ou 
find  it  impossible  to  realise  the  danger.  In  reality  the 
danger  is  negligible.  In  the  company  of  a  few  carriers  you 
are  perfectly  safe,  for  the  king  of  the  forest  has  as  little 
stomach  for  an  encounter  as  you  have.  Of  course,  if  you 
went  for  a  solitary  moonlight  walk  it  might  be  difftrent, 
but  you  have  sense  enough  to  keep  near  the  blazing  camp 
fires.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  men  have  lived  a  quarter 
of  a  century  m  tropical  Africa  and  never  seen  a  lion,  and  it 
would  be  an  easy  matter,  if  one  were  so  disposed,  to  travel 
from  the  Cape  to  Cairo  and  never  see  so  much  as  a  bush 
pig- 

Every  morning  we  are  astir  in  the  grey  dawn.  Our  tents 
are  quickly  taken  down  and  packed  for  the  journey.  Every 


96 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


carrier  knows  his  load.  It  may  be  a  roll  of  bedding  or  a 
tin  box  or  a  couple  of  deck  chairs  or  a  food  basket.  He 
may  have  grumbled  over  it  at  first,  but  once  it  is  his  he 
sticks  to  it  and  will  not,  if  he  can  help  it,  carry  any  other. 
Extraordinary  is  the  patience  and  thoroughness  with  which 
every  morning  he  ties  and  reties  his  load,  with  rope  if  he 
has  it,  and  if  not,  with  pliable  bark,  knowing  all  the  while 
that  the  whole  must  be  untied  again  at  night.  No  fear  of 
anything  getting  broken  or  lost.  "Give  the  African  your 
best  china,"  says  Selous,  the  great  hunter, and  tell  him  it  is 
fragile.  Let  him  pack  it  up  in  his  own  way  and  he  will 
bring  it  in  safe  every  night." 

Ere  we  have  finished  breakfast  most  of  the  men  are  well 
on  the  way.  Only  a  few  remain  whose  loads  consist  of  the 
table,  chairs,  and  dishes.  Soon  we  are  all  on  the  road. 
The  long  grass  drenches  us  with  dew  at  every  step,  but 
as  in  bathing,  one  does  not  mind  it  after  the  first  plunge. 
In  an  hour  or  two,  when  the  sun  is  up,  we  shall  be  thoroughly 
dried.  Gradually  we  overtake  the  carriers  and  push  on  up 
the  line  which  straggles  out  for  a  mile  or  two  through  the 
forest.  As  we  pass  a  few  of  the  men  the  Doctor  happens 
to  sneeze.  Turning,  he  reproaches  them  humorously. 
"  You  did  not  say  to  me,  *The  evil  thing  has  gone  out  of 
you,'  "  as  native  politeness  required  them  to  say  when  a 
friend  sneezes.  They  looked  abashed.  "We  forgot,"  they 
said.    "  We  are  sorry. " 

With  the  help  of  our  cycles  we  reach  the  first  village 
ahead  of  the  men  and  spend  half  an  hour  in  it.  If  there 
is  a  school  we  halt  there  and  hold  an  informal  meeting. 
The  Doctor  presides  and  interprets.  The  Deputy,  being 
duly  introduced,  gives  as  best  he  can  his  word  of  exhortation. 
He  commends  the  villagers  on  their  enterprise  in  having  a 
school.  Where  there  is  no  school  he  laments  their  back- 
wardness. Often  he  is  thrilled  by  the  singing  of  the  twenty- 
third  Psalm,  or  the  recitation  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  by  the 
children  of  villages  where  there  is  not  a  single  Christian. 
Everywhere  he  sees  fields  white  to  the  harvest. 

Mid-day  brings  a  grateful  rest,  perhaps  on  the  bank  of 
some  clear  mountain  stream,  more  often  in  a  village  school, 


THE  LITTLE  GREY  THREAD 


97 


or  on  a  reed  mat  spread  under  the  shady  side  of  a  hut. 
After  quenching  our  thrist  with  great  draughts  of  tea,  we 
have  leisure  to  stroll  round  and  observe  the  life  of  the  village. 
Here  a  hut  is  building ;  here  a  woman  is  on  her  knees 
grinding  milesi  meal  between  two  stones.  She  grasps  the 
upper  stone  in  her  hands  and  pounds  the  grain  like  a  Scots 
housewife  rolling  oatcakes.  Here  is  another  moulding  an 
earthen  pot ;  here  a  girl  is  painfully  shaving  off  her  mother's 
eyebrows  with  a  piece  of  hoop  iron  for  a  razor.  Presently 
the  musician  of  the  village  comes  with  his  kalimba  to  play 
in  our  honour.  An  old  man,  and  half  blind,  he  croaks  out  a 
few  syllables  to  signify  that  we  are  chiefs  and  big  bulls. 
Then,  as  an  interlude,  he  strums  a  few  notes  on  his  instru- 
ment. Being  apparently  dramatist  as  well  as  musician 
he  follows  up  his  song  with  a  play.  Act  I. — Lighting  the  fire 
(he  gathers  a  few  sticks  and  pretends  to  make  fire  by 
friction).  Act  II. — Burnt  by  a  spark  (he  claps  his  hand 
to  his  head,  hops  about  in  agony,  and  then  belabours  a  boy 
as  the  cause  of  the  accident).  Act  III. — Eating  dinner  (he 
snatches  chips  out  of  the  seeming  fire,  drops  them,  blows 
on  his  fingers,  picks  them  up  and  nibbles  them).  Curtain  ! 
Finally  he  sells  his  kalimba  for  a  shilling  and  retires  from 
the  stage. 

We  fare  on  through  the  heat  of  the  afternoon  and  again 
begin  to  overtake  the  line  of  patient  carriers.  Some  are 
sitting  beside  a  stream,  bathing  their  feet  and  rubbing  off 
the  callosities  with  pieces  of  sandstone.  They  know  by 
experience  the  agony  when  hardened  skin  cracks  on  a  long 
journey.  All  have  a  notion  more  or  less  accurate  of  the 
distance  of  our  halting-place,  and  they  time  themselves  to 
arrive  before  sunset.  Sometimes,  however,  expectation  is 
sadly  disappointed. 

On  one  occasion  we  were  badly  taken  in.  Coffee  was 
the  man  who  was  chiefly  to  blame.  How  he  came  by  that 
name  is  a  mystery,  but  he  was  a  big  sturdy  Wemba  and 
ought  to  have  known  his  own  country.  He  promised  us  a 
convenient  halting-place  at  a  village  just  beyond  the  Manchia 
River.  Towards  sundown,  however,  he  began  to  think  that 
the  Manchia  might  be  two  hours  away.    The  Doctor  and  I 

7 


98 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


pushed  on  to  look  for  the  river  and  village  while  the  Pro- 
fessor waited  to  hurry  up  the  carriers.  The  Manchia 
proved  to  be  a  broad,  deep,  stream  crossed  by  a  rustic 
bridge  hung  on  great  wires.  Part  of  the  bridge  was  down, 
the  rest  was  hanging  at  an  angle  of  45  degrees,  supported 
by  the  swaying  wires.  The  village  was  a  good  two  miles 
beyond  the  river.  An  hour  after  dark,  and  it  was  very 
dark,  only  Jumari  and  the  cycle-boys  had  come  in.  There 
was  no  sign  of  the  carriers  nor  any  prospect  of  supper. 
Jumari  lit  his  lamp  and  volunteered  to  go  back  to  the 
river  if  some  of  the  villagers  would  go  with  him.  Twice 
he  started,  only  to  reappear,  saying  they  had  deserted  him. 
As  the  situation  seemed  impossible,  I  took  the  lamp  while 
Jumari  and  another  man  took  their  spears  and  we  returned 
to  the  river.  We  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time.  The 
carriers  had  reached  the  other  bank,  and  groping  along  on 
the  bridge  had  just  come  to  the  gap.  In  the  flare  of  the 
lantern  they  looked  like  a  broken  line  of  ants  that  had  lost 
their  way  and  were  feeling  anxiously  about.  It  took  the 
best  part  of  an  hour  to  get  everything  sluno-  across,  and 
as  much  more  to  get  into  camp. 

"Were  you  nervous  going  down  to  the  river?"  inquired 
the  Doctor,  as  we  sat  at  a  very  late  supper. 

"  No,"  I  said.       It  did  not  strike  me' that  way." 
H'm  !    You  have  not  had  your  nerve  shaken  by  a  lion 
yet,"  he  remarked. 

As  it  happened,  the  very  next  day  we  encountered  a 
lion.  The  brute  slunk  away  across  a  danibo  in  deliberate 
fashion  and  with  a  surly,  backward  look,  as  much  as  to  say, 
Yes,  I'm  going,  but  don't  hurry  me".  I  turned  to  my 
friend  and  said,  You're  right,  Doctor.  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  would  go  to  the  Manchia  again  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XVl. 


ROUND  THE  CAMP-FIRE. 

"  Speaking  of  lions,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  we  drew  our 
chairs  round  the  camp-fire,  "  you  can  never  tell  what  a  lion 
will  do.  Generally  they  won't  face  the  light,  but  I  have 
known  one  leap  on  to  a  veranda  where  two  men  were  dining, 
with  lamps  lit  and  servants  about,  and  pick  up  a  dog.  You 
never  realise  how  they  come  nosing  about  after  dark  till 
you  have  experience  of  it,  and  then  you  don't  forget.  One 
night  I  went  out  to  see  who  was  rummaging  about.  Seeing 
nothing,  I  came  in  and  shut  the  door  about  half  a  second 
before  the  lion's  paws  struck  it.  That  lion  must  have  been 
pretty  hungry,  for  he  stayed  all  night  on  the  veranda  gnaw- 
ing some  old  horns.    It  was  a  close  shave." 

The  evening  hour  by  the  camp-fire  is  the  crown  of  the 
day,  the  rich  reward  at  the  end  of  the  road,  the  hour  for 
yarn  and  song  and  drowsy  reading  beside  the  blazing  logs, 
when  all  the  bustle  of  making  camp  has  settled  down.  If 
the  camp  is  pitched  in  the  forest,  it  has  to  be  stockaded 
round.  Young  trees  are  felled  skilfully,  branches  lopped  off 
and  piled  up  till  a  space  is  enclosed  sufficient  for  the  tents 
and  the  camp-fires.  If,  as  usually  happens,  there  is  a  village 
to  camp  in,  an  open  space  is  selected  and  swept  clean.  The 
village  crier,  by  order  of  the  chief,  proclaims  aloud,  "  Let 
the  boys  bring  firewood,  let  the  women  bring  water ". 
Obediently  the  village  boys  trot  off  to  the  forest  and  return 
with  great  dry  logs  ;  while  the  women,  laying  aside  their 
work,  take  each  an  earthen  pot  and  file  off  to  the  stream 
or  well.  As  if  these  kindly  services  were  of  no  account,  the 
head  men  bring  a  present  of  fowls  or  meal  or  sweet  potatoes. 
This  the  Doctor  receives  at  his  tent  door,  and  makes  a 

(99) 


100  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


suitable  return  in  calico.  Thus  the  claims  of  hospitality  are 
satisfied  and  our  friendship  sealed. 

Washed  from  the  dust  and  sweat  of  the  road  we  sit  down 
to  our  evening  meal.  Even  were  our  appetites  less  keen  it 
must  be  pronounced  excellent.  Where  it  came  from  and 
how  prepared  is  a  mystery  known  only  to  Jonah,  the  cook. 
A  royal  fire  of  logs  is  blazing  near  us,  for  the  night  air 
grows  chilly.  At  smaller  fires  the  various  groups  of  carriers 
are  gathered  round  their  pots  of  porridge.  Native  meal  is 
stirred  in  till  the  porridge  stick  can  stir  no  more,  when  the 
thick  mass  is  served  on  a  dish  of  leaves  and  bolted  in  great 
lumps.  The  only  relish  is  a  few  herbs,  or,  very  rarely,  a 
scrap  of  flesh.  The  monotony  of  this  diet  breeds  an  acute 
craving  for  something  tasty,  such  as  kungu  fly.  One  even- 
ing special  interest  centres  in  a  big  boiling  pot,  full  of 
objects  resembling  beans.  I  inquire  as  to  its  contents.  For 
answer,  Nkufwela,  the  capitao,  a  man  of  few  words  and  none 
of  them  English,  picks  out  something  and  holds  it  towards 
me  in  his  broad  palm.  It  is  a  great  hairy  caterpillar.  I 
beat  a  hasty  retreat,  not  waiting  to  see  the  feast.  Doubtless 
it  is  all  a  matter  of  taste.  Each,  in  our  own  way,  we  are 
fed  and  satisfied,  and  now  for  the  hour  of  well-earned  rest. 

Ah,  those  evenings  in  the  camp,  how  bewitching  is  their 
memory !  The  weird  mingling  of  light  and  shade,  as  the 
sun  sets  and  the  stars  come  out,  might  belong  to  a  world  of 
romance.  There  is  a  rich  central  glow  where  the  big  camp- 
fire  blazes  and  flings  glancing  lights  on  the  dark  faces  of  the 
men.  The  village  huts  are  in  deep  shade,  broken  here  and 
there  by  the  smaller  fires.  Beyond  them  the  dim  encircling 
forest  closes  round,  and  above  the  dark  tree  tops  the  orange 
sky  shades  into  pale  green.  The  Southern  Cross  comes  out, 
first  of  all  the  stars.  Seen  thus  at  sunset,  all  alone  in  the 
southern  sky,  it  appears  most  impressive  and  significant. 
No  wonder  the  first  bold  voyagers  on  southern  seas  hailed 
it  as  their  star  of  Bethlehem.  To  them  it  was  indeed  a 
heavenly  sign,  a  token  that  here  was  no  new  world  of 
monstrous  birth,  but  a  land  presided  over  by  the  Cross. 

Darkness  falls  over  the  village  and  forest,  and  the  sky 
glitters  with  stars.    The  Doctor  has  the  kindliest  way  with 


ROUND  THE  CAMP  FIRE 


lOI 


the  men,  and  does  not  forbid  them,  as  most  would,  to 
approach  our  fire.  So  they  gather  round  in  a  semicircle  as 
close  as  they  can  sit.  The  Doctor  sets  them  talking  and 
quietly  listens,  putting  in  a  word  now  and  then,  and  gently 
opening  page  after  page  of  that  sealed  book,  the  native 
mind.  The  men  are  at  their  ease,  they  rehearse  dramati- 
cally the  incidents  of  the  day,  they  discuss  their  customs 
and  exchange  banter.  Old  Kayira  is  an  immovable  con- 
servative. No  woman,  he  argues,  should  sit  down  to  eat 
with  men.  "  Why  not  ?  "  some  of  the  others  ask.  Kayira 
shakes  his  head.  He  cannot  give  a  particular  reason,  but 
he  protests  it  would  never  do. 

Kalulu,  the  cycle-boy,  is  usually  a  prominent  figure  in 
these  debates.  He  is  one  of  the  ugliest,  nakedest,  jolliest, 
most  lovable  fellows  of  the  lot.  How  he  came  to  be  called 
Kalulu  is  a  story  worth  telling,  as  an  illustration  of  the  ease 
with  which  an  African  will  change  his  name.  One  day, 
instead  of  following  the  cycle,  Matekenya,  as  he  was  then 
called,  was  told  ofif  to  carry  a  load,  while  Samson  was 
appointed  cycle-boy.  Samson,  however,  quite  belied  his 
name.  He  lingered  discreetly  in  the  rear,  and  gave  no 
help  all  day.  When  we  gathered  round  the  camp-fire  at 
night,  I  conveyed  to  Matekenya  that  he  was  the  boy  for 
me,  and  Samson  was  no  good. 

"  You  run  like  a  rabbit  (kalulu),"  I  said.  Samson  runs 
like  a  tortoise." 

Matekenya  jumped  up,  frisked  about  to  show  the  agility 
of  the  rabbit,  then  lay  down  and  gave  the  drollest  imitation 
of  the  gait  of  the  tortoise,  till  he  lay  helpless  with  laughter 
and  had  to  be  admonished  that  Samson's  temper  had  limits. 
Then,  addressing  the  circle  of  carriers  round  the  fire,  he 
exclaimed,  "  You  hear  what  he  has  said.  I  shall  ever  after 
be  known  as  the  boy  who  ran  after  the  Bwana  like  a 
rabbit." 

"  Very  good,"  I  said.    "  Your  name  is  Kalulu." 
He  bowed  low,  clapping  his  hands,  as  their  custom  is,  on 
receiving  a  gift. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said.     Then,  to  the  company, 
The  Bwana  has  given  me  a  new  name,  and  he  will 


102  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


confirm  it  with  a  small  present.  I  am  no  longer 
Matekenya,  I  am  Kalulu."  And  Kalulu  he  remained  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter. 

He  was  a  great  chatterbox,  and  could  do  full  justice  to 
his  tale.  He  had  once  been  in  the  service  of  a  Govern- 
ment official,  to  whom,  by  his  own  account,  he  had  been 
absolutely  indispensable.  Standing  in  front  of  the  men,  he 
described  his  work  with  lively  gestures. 

"  I  swept  his  room,  and  made  his  bed,  and  brushed 

his  boots,  and  dusted  his  desk,  and  sorted  his  papers,  and 
 )} 

And  wiped  his  nose,"  interrupted  the  Doctor,  who  had 
been  listening  unobserved.  At  this  sally  a  burst  of 
universal  laughter  compelled  the  orator  to  break  off  his 
discourse,  and  subside  into  the  background. 

Dear,  simple-hearted  Kalulu,  many  a  happy  hour  we  had 
together  on  the  road.  He  was  not  a  church-member,  nor 
even  a  catechumen,  but  he  carried  with  him  a  copy  of  the 
Ivangeli  wa  Johanne  (Gospel  of  John),  in  which  he  read  his 
daily  portion,  and  when  a  lion  roared  horribly  in  the 
gloaming,  he  said  valiantly,  The  lion  cannot  harm  us. 
Are  we  not  men  of  God  ?  " 

Sometimes  we  had  a  sing-song  in  the  evening,  for  there 
were  a  few  hymn-books  in  the  company,  and  perhaps  one 
or  two  in  the  village.  The  programme  was  invariably 
sacred,  except  on  one  occasion.  It  was  at  Mpumachibaba, 
a  big  village  in  the  Wisa  country,  that  a  more  ambitious 
concert  was  attempted.  The  Mwenzo  boys  rendered  their 
version  of  "  John  Brown's  body,"  and  the  Deputy,  in  a  weak 
moment,  was  induced  to  sing  at  the  request  of  the  villagers, 
who  professed  an  ardent  longing  to  hear  his  voice.  '  Some 
good-going  song,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Jingle  Bells  "  was  the 
response,  and  it  survived  the  first  verse  famously,  with  the 
accompaniment  of  hand-clapping  to  the  chorus.  But  at  the 
second  verse  the  situation  became  irresistibly  absurd.  Scene, 
darkest  Africa  ;  audience  of  natives  listening  open-mouthed, 
while  grave  Church  Deputy  exhorts  them,  fortunately  in 
an  unknown  tongue,  to  "go  it  while  you're  young  !  " 
Result,  sudden  convulsion  of  laughter,  in  which  the  audience 


ROUND  THE  CAMP-FIRE 


103 


heartily,  but  uncomprehendingly,  join.  By  way  of  atone- 
ment, the  Deputy  renders  God  save  the  King, 

But  these  hyms,  one  never  wearied  of  them.  The  sacred 
and  familiar  music  of  "  Rock  of  Ages,"  "  Nearer  my 
God  to  Thee,"  and  "  The  Sweet  by  and  by,"  wedded 
to  strange  words  and  sung  in  that  far-off  land,  fell 
on  the  ear  with  singular  pathos,  and  sent  surges  of 
feeling  through  the  heart.  Yet,  one  could  well  under- 
stand how  there  are  ears  in  which  these  sounds  would 
be  maddening.  When  the  wanderer,  who  has  half- 
forgotten  the  sanctities  of  home,  finds  himself  serenaded  in 
the  heart  of  heathendom  by  the  holiest  strains  of  his  child- 
hood, it  is  as  if  the  blessed  dead  rose  from  the  grave  and 
confronted  him.  With  a  furious  oath  he  springs  to  his 
feet  and  bids  that  canting  cease.  Thus  it  comes  to  pass 
that  the  psalm-singing  native  is  a  great  abomination  to  the 
Egyptians. 

The  circle  round  the  fire  was  never  rude  or  obtrusive, 
and  many  a  quiet  talk  we  had  on  things  i^-frican.  Often 
we  spoke  of  the  trials  and  rewards  of  missionary  life,  of  the 
seeming  hopelessness  of  it,  and  yet  of  the  evidences  that 
accumulate,  pointing  to  the  co-operation  of  a  Power  other 
than  human,  a  Power  that  touches  chords  in  savage  breasts, 
mysterious  as  the  wind  passing  over  the  strings  of  an 
iEolian  harp.  One  story  told  was  perhaps  as  remarkable 
as  any  recorded  in  the  history  of  Christian  experience. 

A  Church  member  at  Mwenzo  had  fallen  from  his 
profession  and  returned  to  heathenism  and  debauchery. 
Being  present  one  night  at  a  beer-drinking,  as  he  raised 
the  pot  to  his  lips,  he  suddenly  let  it  fall  and  rushed  out  of 
the  hut.  For  two  days  and  nights  he  remained  shut  up  in 
his  own  hut,  and  the  neighbours,  gathering  about  the 
door,  heard  only  sobs  and  cries. 

"  He  is  bewitched,"  they  said. 

"  No,"  replied  the  unhappy  man,  but  God  has  spoken 
to  me." 

At  length,  in  calmer  mood,  he  came  to  the  missionary  and 
told  his  experience.  As  he  lifted  the  pot  of  beer  to  his  lips 
he  suddenly  heard  a  voice,  as  from  heaven,  saying  to  him, 


104 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


"  What  are  you  doing  ?  Are  you  not  my  child  ?  "  From 
that  day  he  lived  a  changed  and  consistent  Christian  life. 

It  might  have  been  a  page  out  of  Bunyan's  autobiography. 
Unbelief  was  rebuked.  One  looked  across  the  fire  at  the 
ring  of  dark  faces,  and  round  about  on  the  shadowy  forms 
of  the  huts,  saying  softy,  "  God  is  in  this  place,  and  I  knew 
it  not 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  A  HUNDRED  WIVES. 

Kafwimb:^  is  the  name,  or  hereditary  title,  of  this  hero,  and 
he  is  the  paramount  chief  of  the  Wiwa.  Native  history  re- 
cords that  the  son  of  an  old  chief  of  the  Winamwanga  stole 
the  royal  drum,  the  emblem  of  authority,  and  fleeing  south 
with  his  followers  set  up  for  himself.  This  action  earned 
for  them  the  name  of  the  Wiwa,  or  thieves.  On  the  parti- 
tion of  Africa,  the  headquarters  of  the  paramount  chief  of 
the  Winamwanga  fell  within  the  German  sphere,  which  left 
Kafwimbe  the  most  important  chief  on  the  British  side  of 
the  border. 

The  holder  of  the  title  was  a  little,  elderly  man,  of  quiet 
manner  and  with  shrewd,  brown  eyes.  We  found  him  in  a 
populous  village,  prettily  situated  in  an  open  valley,  sur- 
rounded by  rocky,  wooded  hills.  The  village  was  unde- 
fended, but  the  residence  of  the  chief  was  surrounded  by  a 
high  stockade  of  irregular  shape.  Within  the  stockade 
were  two  courtyards,  the  first  containing  the  numerous  huts 
of  the  chiefs  wives  and  children,  the  second  containing  the 
chiefs  own  hut,  with  a  few  grainstores.  Into  this  inner 
courtyard  the  chiefs  wives  were  not  allowed  to  come,  though 
his  sons  and  headmen  appeared  to  enter  without  ceremony. 

Here  we  had  our  first  audience.  Kafwimb6  and  the 
Doctor  occupied  the  only  two  chairs  that  the  royal  estab- 
lishment could  boast,  the  Professor  and  the  Deputy  sat  each 
on  a  drum.  A  miscellaneous  crowd  of  boys  and  headmen 
squatted  on  the  ground,  while  numbers  of  wives  peered  over 
the  stockade.  The  most  striking  feature  of  the  chiefs  attire 
was  a  head-dress  or  crown  of  bead  work.  It  formed  a  sort 
of  skull-cap,  with  a  line  of  five  ornaments  running  from  above 

(105) 


io6  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  brow  to  the  back  of  the  neck.  These  had  exactly  the 
appearance  of  five  bolts  driven  into  the  chiefs  head,  with 
nuts  screwed  on  to  them.  The  bolts  were  of  black  bead- 
work,  as  thick  as  a  man's  finger  and  projecting  an  inch  from 
the  skull.  The  nuts  were  round,  white  shells,  of  a  kind  which 
the  Arabs  used  to  bring  from  the  coast  and  sell  for  a  slave 
each.  The  old  chief  was  in  the  most  friendly  mood,  and 
presently  despatched  one  of  his  attendants  for  a  little  packet 
of  lions'  claws,  which  he  presented  to  us. 

''Is  it  court  etiquette  to  offer  him  a  pinch  of  snuff?" 
asked  the  Deputy. 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

A  native  snufif-box,  like  a  long-necked  bottle,  was  produced 
and  handed  over.  After  the  old  man  had  done  justice  to 
it,  he  passed  it  to  the  headmen  who  sat  round  his  chair. 
Afterwards,  when  we  visited  the  wives'  enclosure,  they  begged 
the  box  and  emptied  it. 

The  Doctor's  acquaintance  with  Kafwimbe  was  of  ten 
years'  standing,  and  on  his  first  visit  a  curious  incident  oc- 
curred in  that  same  courtyard.  The  chief  had  heard  of  the 
mystery  of  reading,  and  wished  to  satisfy  himself  of  the 
truth  of  the  report.  Had  the  Doctor  any  natives  with  him 
who  could  do  this  wonderful  thing  ?  Yes,  here  were  two 
teachers.  Kafwimbe,  having  sent  one  of  them  out  to  a 
distance  in  charge  of  one  of  his  sons,  whispered  a  sentence 
to  the  other,  who  wrote  it  down.  The  chief  grasped  the 
slip  of  paper  in  his  hand,  sent  off  the  second  teacher  and 
recalled  the  first. 

"What  did  I  say?"  he  asked,  showing  the  paper.  The 
teacher  glanced  at  it  and  gave  the  answer,  to  the  complete 
bewilderment  of  the  onlookers.  Kafwimbe  declared  he 
must  have  a  school  in  his  village  to  teach  his  people  this 
magic  art.  Afterwards,  in  deference  to  the  opposition  of 
his  headmen,  he  abandoned  the  idea.  He  sent,  however, 
two  of  his  sons  to  Mwenzo  to  be  taught  to  read.  One  of 
these  is  now  a  teacher  in  the  Mission,  and  in  course  of  time 
a  school  was  built  in  Kafwimbe's  own  village. 

We  camped  at  the  school,  and  there  in  the  evening  the 
chief  came  to  pay  his  return  call.    Most  of  the  villagers 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  A  HUNDRED  WIVES  107 


accompanied  him,  and  we  began  with  a  short  service. 
Kafwimb6's  teacher  son  led  the  singing,  and  chose  for  the 
opening  psalm,  "  Lord  bless  and  pity  us  This,  in  view 
of  the  circumstances  of  the  family,  appeared  singularly  ap- 
propriate if  somewhat  personal.  After  the  service  the 
villagers  retired,  but  the  chief  sat  conversing  with  us  by  the 
camp-fire  till  late  at  night.  The  old  man  was  not  without 
a  due  sense  of  courtesy.  He  produced  his  snuff-box,  a  neat 
little  silver  box,  which  he  handed  to  the  embarrassed 
Deputy,  who  was  compelled  to  make  pretence  of  enjoying 
a  hearty  pinch.  The  chief  inquired  how  many  children  he 
had,  and  on  learning  there  were  but  four,  he  remarked  that 
the  Deputy  was  evidently  not  a  big  chief  at  home — a  sound 
conclusion,  doubtless,  though  based  on  dubious  premises. 
When  asked  how  many  children  he  had,  Kafwimbe  could 
not  even  give  an  estimate,  and  appeared  to  think  it  beneath 
his  dignity  to  keep  count.  Of  the  number  of  his  wives,  too, 
he  was  doubtful.  A  score  or  two  were  at  headquarters,  the 
rest  were  scattered  through  his  territory.  Many  of  them 
have  been  literally  thrust  upon  him  as  embarrassing  presents 
from  villages  that  sought  his  favour.  It  must  surely  be  an 
experience,  almost  without  parallel,  when  the  old  man  goes 
on  tour,  to  rediscover  everywhere  his  forgotten  wives. 

He  had  heard  of  Lake  Nyasa,  but  never  seen  it,  and  as 
for  the  ocean  he  could  form  no  conception  of  it.  He  talked 
very  readily  about  old  times.  The  land,  he  said,  used  to 
be  full  of  people,  but  now  there  were  but  few.  Many  of 
his  tribe  had  been  killed  by  the  Wemba  and  the  Ngoni. 
It  was  Mlozi  who  egged  them  on.  He  showed  them  guns 
and  cloth,  saying,  Bring  me  slaves  and  you  will  get  these 
When  Mlozi  was  hanged  all  his  people  said  it  was  good. 

He  admitted  that  the  white  man  had  pacified  the  country, 
but  he  manifested  no  enthusiasm  for  British  rule.  That, 
perhaps,  is  more  than  could  reasonably  be  expected.  The 
white  man's  coming  has  robbed  him  of  his  power,  and  the 
meanest  of  his  people  knows  it.  The  boys  returning  from 
the  mines  can  swagger  in  his  presence  with  impunity.  The 
tribesmen  are  not  compelled  to  do  obeisance  to  him.  In 
the  old  days,  every  man  who  entered  his  presence  had  to 


io8  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


prostrate  himself  on  his  back  with  his  head  towards  the 
chief,  and  salute  him  with  handclapping.  On  the  Doctor's 
first  visit  every  one  of  his  carriers  conformed  to  this  custom. 
On  the  present  occasion  only  one  was  observed  to  do  it. 

The  native  policeman  is  now  a  power  in  the  land,  and 
Kafwimb6  himself  is  liable  to  answer  for  his  deeds.  A 
short  time  ago  he  was  summoned  on  the  grave  charge  of 
causing  the  death  of  one  of  his  wives.  The  poor  woman, 
being  taken  ill  in  the  field,  was  hurrying  home,  and  for 
some  reason  crossed  the  forbidden  courtyard,  where 
Kafwimb6,  happening  to  meet  her,  struck  her  a  blow 
with  his  staff.  Next  day  the  woman  died.  In  due  time 
the  native  policeman  appeared  and  said,  Give  me  a  cow 
and  nothing  more  will  be  heard  of  it ".  Kafwimbe,  after 
some  demur,  agreed.  The  affair,  however,  coming  to  the 
magistrate's  ears,  the  policeman  was  punished  and  the  chief 
had  to  stand  his  trial.  The  whole  tribe  was  thrown  into  a 
state  of  the  wildest  excitement,  but,  fortunately,  proof  was 
forthcoming  that  the  blow  given  did  not  contribute  to  the 
woman's  death,  and  the  chief  was  acquitted. 

No  wonder  he  has  little  enthusiasm  for  British  rule,  and 
probably  thinks  in  his  inmost  heart  that  the  old  days,  with 
all  their  bloodshed  and  slave-raiding,  were  better.  There 
he  is,  a  dethroned  monarch,  a  degraded  dignitary,  a 
stockaded  survival  of  the  old  order.  He  finds  the  new 
world  quite  beyond  his  depth.  At  his  age  he  cannot  keep 
pace  with  it.  Yes,  he  has  been  trying  to  read,  he  says, 
but  his  book  is  lost.  Poor  old  heathen.  A  chief  now  only 
in  name,  he  has  outlived  the  day  of  his  glory.  Soon  he 
must  pass,  his  pitiful  stockade  be  broken  down,  and  his 
harem  scattered,  to  give  place  to  other,  and,  let  us  hope, 
better  ways. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  BOMA. 

The  Boma  is  a  name  of  rich  and  varied  significance. 
Everything  governmental  in  Nyasaland  and  North-Eastern 
Rhodesia  is  comprehended  under  the  term.  The  residence 
of  each  local  magistrate  is  the  Boma  for  that  district,  and 
what  the  Boma  says  is  law  in  all  the  villages  within  a 
radius  of  fifty  miles. 

The  typical  Boma  consists  of  a  low-roofed  bungalow, 
with  an  ample  veranda,  usually  littered  with  rare  and 
valuable  horns.  Surrounding  it  is  an  irregular  group  of 
buildings,  including  an  office,  a  store,  a  prison,  with 
quarters  for  a  few  native  police.  The  whole  area  is 
cleared  of  undergrowth  and  kept  scrupulously  clean.  The 
cleaning  is  mainly  the  business  of  the  prisoners,  who 
appear  to  have  on  the  whole  a  fairly  good  time.  Sentenced 
often  for  the  transgression  of  some  Government  regulation, 
and  suffering  no  personal  disgrace  nor  discomfort,  they 
accept  their  fate  stoically  as  part  of  the  mystery  of  the 
white  man's  rule. 

At  the  Mpika  Boma  we  found  two  Ngoni  sitting  on  the 
ground  waiting  their  trial.  They  had  cut  across  the 
Luangwa  valley,  hoping  to  travel  south  with  us  as  carriers. 
In  so  doing  they  had  traversed  a  sleeping  sickness  area 
without  a  passport,  and  had  come  straight  on  to  the  Boma 
to  report  their  offence. 

"  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  put  them  in  for  a  month,"  said 
the  Boma  man  apologetically.  "  You  don't  really  need 
them,  do  you  ?  " 

So  they  went  to  join  the  company  who  were  hoeing  a 
road. 

(109) 


no 


STREAMS  LN  THE  DESERT 


The  Boma  is  a  wonderful  institution.  These  lone 
houses  in  the  forest,  where  a  single  white  man  lives  with  a 
few  askari,  1 00  miles  from  help  in  case  of  need,  may  seem 
a  frail  chain  with  which  to  bind  vast  tracts  of  savagery 
to  law  and  order.  But  the  whole  invisible  power  of  the 
Empire  is  behind  them,  and  every  African  knows  it. 
Therefore,  life  and  property  are  safe  in  Central  Africa,  safer 
perhaps  than  at  home — a  white  man's  life  certainly  safer. 
It  might  be  supposed  that  the  traveller  who  plunges  into 
these  forests  runs  some  risk  of  being  swallowed  up  and 
lost.  In  reality  it  would  be  easier  for  an  elephant  to  go 
amissing  on  Hampstead  Heath,  than  for  a  white  man  to 
disappear  in  British  Central  Africa.  His  passing  is  an 
event  of  public  importance.  From  village  to  village  he 
could  be  traced,  and  if  he  had  done  and  suffered  anything, 
it  would  all  come  out.  The  lone  Englishman  who  sits  at 
the  Boma  gets  all  the  news  of  the  countryside  from  his 
askari,  unless  they  have  their  own  reasons  for  concealing 
it.  There  are  complicated  game  laws,  for  instance,  the 
various  licenses  permitting  the  shooting  of  various  kinds  of 
game.  It  might  seem  as  if  the  hunter  in  these  vast  forests 
could  laugh  at  game  laws,  yet  these  laws  are  enforced. 
The  Doctor,  succumbing  one  day  to  a  temptation  which  no 
sportsman  could  resist,  shot  a  fine  eland,  an  animal  not 
included  in  his  license.  He  immediately  announced  his 
intention  of  reporting  himself  to  the  Boma  at  Serenje  on 
his  way  back. 

They  would  be  sure  to  hear  of  it  at  any  rate,"  he 
added,  feeling  that  he  was  only  making  a  virtue  of 
necessity. 

The  Serenje  Boma  was  seventy  miles  away. 

The  doctor  was  evidently  a  persona  grata  at  every  Boma 
down  the  great  plateau,  and  for  his  sake  we  received  nothing 
but  overflowing  kindness  from  the  day  when  we  were 
welcomed  at  the  frontier  post  with  strawberries  and  cream. 
It  was  exceedingly  gratifying  to  find,  both  in  Nyasaland 
and  North-Eastern  Rhodesia,  the  relations  between  Boma 
and  Mission  so  very  cordial.  Statements  to  the  contrary, 
in  the  book  of  a  recent  traveller,  had  caused  deep  regret. 


THE  BOMA 


III 


Things  perhaps  may  have  been  different  in  the  early  days, 
when  the  Boma  man  was  often  an  ex-hunter  or  adventurer 
whose  moral  relations  with  the  natives  placed  him  outside 
the  pale  of  decent  society.  But  to-day  the  honour  of  the 
service  is  above  reproach.  The  Boma  is  presided  over  by 
a  man  of  education,  with  the  interests  of  the  natives  at 
heart,  and  pursuing  towards  them  an  enlightened  policy. 

It  may  be  doubted,  however,  whether,  in  dealing  with 
the  native,  there  is  not  too  much  of  that  aloofness  and 
hauteur  which  is  erroneously  supposed  to  be  essential  to 
the  maintenance  of  the  prestige  of  the  white  man.  This 
is  sometimes  carried  to  intolerable  extremes.  He  was  a 
cad,  of  course,  who,  on  visiting  Kafwimbe's  village,  refused 
to  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  chief  when  he  came  to  pay  his 
respects.  One  pictures  with  indignation  the  detestable 
puppy,  freshly  emancipated  from  school,  lounging  grandly 
in  his  camp-chair  while  the  old  chief  stands  by,  and  after 
humbly  waiting  for  a  word  or  look  of  recognition,  retires 
at  last  choking  with  mortification.  What  madness  thus 
deliberately  to  insult  and  humiliate  a  great  chief  before 
all  his  people !  From  such  actions  rebellions  have  sprung 
and  bloody  wars,  and  always  the  native  was  to  blame. 
But,  apart  from  such  extravagance  of  folly,  the  Boma 
man  is  naturally  impelled  to  an  attitude  of  aloofness  in 
support  of  his  dignity  as  representative  of  the  ruling  race. 
It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  loss  is  not  greater  than 
the  gain.  Vainly  does  a  man  hope  by  superior  airs  to 
create  an  impression  of  superiority.  Pomposity  is  never 
impressive,  because  it  is  so  easily  seen  through.  And 
one  suspects  that  the  shrewd,  minutely  observant  African 
can  take  the  measure  even  of  the  Boma  man,  and  knows 
to  an  ounce  how  much  there  is  of  genuine  manhood  in 
him.  It  is  because,  withal,  there  is  so  much  genuine 
manhood  and  solid  worth  in  the  service,  that  the  prestige 
of  the  ruling  race  is  maintained.  This  doctrine  of  prestige, 
however,  has  become  such  a  fetish  in  some  quarters  that 
one  finds  so  high  an  authority  as  Sir  Frederick  Lugard 
making  the  astounding  statement  that  the  progress  of  the 
Gospel  in  Central  Africa  is  ultimately  dependent  on  the 


112  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


prestige  of  the  white  man.  The  same  Gospel  which  in 
the  first  age  was  dependent  on  the  prestige  of  GaHlean 
fishermen  ! 

A  very  practical  evil  resulting  from  the  policy  of  aloof- 
ness is  the  undue  power  it  throws  into  the  hands  of  the 
native  police.  This  is  an  evil  hard  to  avoid  under  any  con- 
ditions, but  it  grows  and  flourishes  where  the  Boma  man 
holds  himself  aloof  from  his  people.  Take  for  illustration 
what  happened  at  the  village  of  Mwita.  The  Boma  man, 
being  on  tour,  camped  near  the  village,  not  in  it  as  a  mis- 
sionary would  naturally  have  done,  and  as  the  fatherly  ruler 
of  a  primitive  people  might  well  have  been  expected  to  do. 
His  askari  went  into  the  village  and  told  the  villagers  that 
he  had  ordered  a  lewd  dance  to  be  performed  in  his  honour. 
The  village  teacher,  with  some  of  the  elders,  went  to  pro- 
test, but  failed  to  get  an  audience.  The  Christian  girls 
fled  for  refuge  to  the  bush,  and  the  dance  was  held.  Next 
day  the  Boma  man  pursued  his  way  in  complete  ignorance 
of  what  had  happened.  Only  through  the  protest  of  the 
Mission  was  the  matter  reported  and  the  guilty  punished. 

The  native  policeman  and  the  native  teacher  are  not 
always  the  best  of  friends.  "  The  askari  trouble  us,"  said 
a  group  of  teachers  to  the  Deputy.  "  They  say,  '  You  are 
nothing.  Your  work  is  nothing.  We  are  the  Govern- 
ment' "  The  situation  can  easily  be  understood.  Both 
parties  probably  suffer  somewhat  from  swelled  head.  They 
feel  themselves  to  be  representatives,  however  humble,  of 
the  dread  powers  of  Church  and  State.  Their  jealousies 
and  squabbles,  in  fact,  are  a  feeble  echo  of  the  mighty  con- 
flicts of  Pope  and  Emperor  which  resounded  through  the 
Middle  Ages.  When  the  great  luminaries  of  Christendom 
shall  have  learnt  to  keep  within  their  respective  spheres, 
then  it  may  be  hoped  that'their  humble  satellites  in  Central 
Africa,  the  askari 'd.ndi  the  msambisgi,  will  move  in  harmony. 

The  Mission,  as  a  whole,  is  in  a  position  to  provide  the 
Government  with  useful  information  and  healthy  criticism. 
The  natives  contrast  the  procedure  of  Church  courts,  where 
a  man  has  freedom  to  speak  all  his  mind,  with  the  civil 
court  where  the  witness  is  abruptly  cut  short,  and  his  mean- 


THE  BOMA 


113 


ing  often  distorted  by  the  native  interpreter.  The  Mission 
can  be  eyes  to  the  Government  and  a  voice  to  the  people. 
No  doubt  the  Boma  man  who  is  dictatorial  may  find  it 
irritating  to  have  in  his  district  another  white  man  of  edu- 
cation and  independent  judgment,  who  knows  the  limits  of 
his  authority  and  the  rights  of  the  native.  And  where  the 
missionary  is  over  critical  or  lacking  in  common  sense  there 
may  be  just  cause  for  irritation.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  there 
is  a  pleasing  atmosphere  of  concord,  based  often  on  warm 
personal  friendship. 

It  would  be  too  much  to  expect  the  native  to  love  the 
Boma,  or  to  appreciate  what  the  Government  is  doing  for 
him.  He  pays  his  hut  tax  and  fails  to  see  what  return  he 
gets  for  his  money.  The  chiefs  find  themselves  in  an  am- 
biguous position ;  for,  while  the  Boma  will  support  them  in 
maintaining  order  in  their  villages,  they  cannot  understand 
the  limits  of  constitutional  authority.  They  do  not  know 
exactly  what  their  powers  and  duties  are  in  relation  to  the 
new  regime.  Even  old  Kafwimbe,  who  had  had  experience 
of  the  miseries  of  war  and  slave-raiding,  was  not  perceptibly 
grateful.  As  for  the  younger  men,  if  the  question  were 
pressed  on  them,  "why  pay  the  white  man  to  rule  your 
country  ? "  one  can  imagine  how  easily  a  restless  spirit  might 
be  generated.  The  more  enlightened  the  policy  of  the 
Government  is,  the  more  does  it  rise  above  the  comprehen- 
sion of  an  ignorant  and  barbarous  people.  So  much  the  more 
urgent  becomes  the  need,  even  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  Government,  for  patient  Christian  education  to  enable 
the  natives  to  appreciate  the  policy  pursued,  and,  gradually 
as  their  fitness  increases,  to  share  in  promoting  it. 


8 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


A  LONE  OUTPOST. 

A  HUNDRED  miles  south  of  Mwenzo  there  is  a  little  clear- 
ing in  the  forest  beside  a  stream  and  a  well.  At  one  side 
of  the  clearing  stands  a  church  school  of  primitive  construc- 
tion, with  mud  walls  and  roof  of  thatch.  At  the  opposite 
side,  facing  the  church,  is  an  equally  primitive  kind  of 
cottage.  It  is  a  mere  but  and  ben,  which  the  missionary 
built  with  his  own  hands  in  three  weeks,  and  where  he  lives 
with  his  wife  and  child.  To  the  right  of  the  cottage  are 
two  round  huts,  one  of  which  serves  for  a  dining-room,  the 
other  for  a  study.  To  the  left  of  the  cottage  is  another  mud 
erection,  which  might  appear  in  missionary  reports  under 
the  title  of  a  Girls'  Boarding  School.  Here  a  handful  of 
native  girls  are  kept  and  trained  under  the  eye  of  the 
missionary's  wife.  In  the  centre  of  the  clearing  is  the  re- 
mains of  the  gigantic  ant  hill,  out  of  which  the  mud  required 
for  all  these  building  operations  was  excavated.  The  forest 
closely  encircles  the  whole. 

Such  is  Chinsali,  the  most  recent,  as  it  is  the  most  remote, 
of  the  stations  of  the  Livingstonia  Mission.  The  mission- 
ary in  charge,  Mr.  McMinn,  has  grown  grey  in  the  service. 
A  man  of  few  words,  with  the  air  of  a  recluse,  and  the 
stoop  and  pallor  of  the  student,  he  has  seen  and  done 
and  suffered  much.  With  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
subtleties  of  the  Bantu  language,  he  has  produced  transla- 
tion work  of  permanent  value.  Quiet,  unemotional,  and 
absolutely  without  gush,  he  could  never  thrill  great  audiences 
or  regale  his  hearers  with  luscious  anecdotes,  yet  there  burns 
in  him  that  still  ardour  of  devotion  which  reveals  itself  in 
unwearied  perseverance.    After  varied  experiences  he  had 

(114) 


A  LONE  OUTPOST 


115 


been  sent  to  break  ground  in  this  remote  and  savage  place, 
and  the  first-fruits  of  his  labours  were  now  beginning  to 
appear. 

Unhappily,  his  work  had,  for  the  moment,  been  laid  under 
a  most  painful  arrest.  The  medical  committee  of  the  Mis- 
sion Council  had  advised  that  no  permanent  buildings  should 
be  erected  in  districts  threatened  by  the  dread  scourge  of 
the  tsetse  fly,  as  they  might  afterwards  have  to  be  aban- 
doned. Chinsali  was  the  station  chiefly  aimed  at,  the  fly 
being  frequent  within  five  miles  of  it,  and  fly,  too,  of  a 
very  bad  type,  with  a  high  percentage  of  sleeping  sickness 
infection.  The  fly,  it  may  be  explained,  is  incomprehen- 
sibly erratic  in  its  migrations  and  choice  of  habitat.  It 
occurs  in  patches  ;  it  may  be  on  one  side  of  a  river  and  not 
on  the  other ;  it  may  be  all  round  a  place  and  never  enter 
it.  But  any  day  it  may  move,  and  where  it  comes  it  brings 
death — death  absolute  to  cattle,  and  to  human  beings  the 
appalling  risk  of  sleeping  sickness.  Hence  the  caution  of 
the  medical  committee — a  caution  fortified  by  hope.  For, 
they  argued,  an  efl*ective  means  of  fighting  the  fly  may  be 
discovered  any  day,  and  then  the  choice  of  a  site  will  not 
be  limited  to  a  fly-free  area. 

Sound  logic,  doubtless,  and  wise  policy,  or  so  it  appeared 
at  the  Council ;  but  the  practical  working  out  of  it  at  Chin- 
sali struck  the  mind  in  a  sharply  different  way.  The  site 
for  the  new  station  was  already  marked  out,  and  thousands 
of  bricks  were  moulded.  The  foundations  for  the  Mission- 
house  had  been  excavated  on  an  airy  spot  on  the  hill-side, 
and  some  fruit  trees  were  planted  round.  All  this  work,  so 
hopefully  begun,  must  now  cease  indefinitely,  and  wait  on 
the  solving  of  the  mystery  of  the  tsetse.  What  shattering 
of  hopes  this  meant  can  only  be  understood  by  the  man, 
and  especially  the  woman,  who  has  lived  for  years  in  a  mud 
hut  in  the  tropics  and  is  expecting  soon  to  have  a  decent 
home.  It  was  not  simply  a  question  of  comfort,  but  of 
health  and  life.  Yet  this  quiet,  brave  man  uttered  no  word 
of  complaint,  nor  made  the  least  parade  of  his  troubles. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  little  more  silent  than  his  wont  as  he 
showed  us  all  he  had  done  and  planned  to  do.    The  fruit 


ii6  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


trees,  standing  like  mournful  sentinels  round  the  founda- 
tions of  the  house,  had,  in  the  circumstances,  a  pathetic 
aspect.  The  question  was  put,  "  Has  your  choice  of  site 
been  limited  by  the  tsetse  ?  " 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  If  there  were  not  a  fly  in  the 
district  this  is  the  site  I  would  have  chosen." 

The  region  is  one  of  the  wildest  savagery,  both  of  man  and 
beast.  Of  savage  beasts  we  had  frequent  evidence  in  the 
villages  and  by  the  way. 

"  Did  you  meet  any  lions  this  morning  ?  "  was  the  query 
addressed  to  us  on  our  arrival  at  Chinsali. 

No,  we  had  met  none,  we  were  thankful  to  say. 

"  Because,"  continued  our  host,  "  three  lions  went  up  the 
path  about  half  an  hour  before  you  came  down." 

The  remark  was  made  as  casually  as  if  it  had  been  three 
cats  walking  along  the  top  of  the  garden  wall.  To  en- 
counter lions  in  one's  morning  walk  seemed  to  this  lonely 
man  a  commonplace  occurrence,  to  be  quietly  accepted  as 
all  in  the  day's  work. 

Of  the  fiercer  savagery  of  man  frightful  evidences  now 
appeared. 

Chinsali  is  in  the  country  of  the  Wemba,  among  whom 
in  the  old  days  punishment  by  mutilation  was  frequent. 
Sitting  beside  the  study  hut  we  found  blind  Shiwembia,  a 
sight  to  move  the  deepest  pity.  He  had  been  a  man  of 
consequence  in  the  tribe,  and  was  married  to  the  chief's 
daughter.  One  of  his  children  unfortunately  died,  and  the 
witch  doctor  laid  the  blame  on  him.  In  consequence  of  this 
his  wife  and  children  were  taken  from  him  and  his  eyes  put 
out.  Not  a  hundred  yards  from  where  he  sat,  his  brother- 
in-law,  the  present  chief,  stalked  along  through  the  forest 
with  a  bodyguard  of  some  thirty  men,  and  there  was  Shi- 
wembia, a  poor  blind  beggar  whom  none  of  his  people  dared 
to  succour. 

Mutilations  of  women  were  not  infrequent.  One  case 
which  was  singularly  shocking  was  that  of  a  little  old 
woman  with  both  hands  cut  off,  as  well  as  her  nose  and  upper 
lip.  The  poor  creature,  when  we  caught  sight  of  her,  was 
sweeping  out  the  door  of  her  hut,  holding  the  broom  be- 


A  LONE  OUTPOST 


117 


tween  her  wrists.  Years  ago  her  husband  had  been  killed 
for  some  offence,  and  she  mutilated  in  this  dreadful  way. 

"  And  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  coming,"  said  a  woman 
to  the  Doctor,  "  we  should  all  have  been  like  that." 

Then  one  realised  that  worse  than  intertribal  war,  worse 
even  than  the  dread  slave  raid,  was  the  persistent,  home- 
coming tyranny  of  the  local  chief.  From  him  there  was  no 
escape.  A  strong  savage  eating  up  his  own  people,  and 
wreaking  on  them  every  cruelty  that  lust  and  passion  could 
devise. 

Already  among  the  cruel  Wemba  the  foundations  of  a 
Christian  community  have  been  laid.  On  Sunday  the  mud 
church  was  filled  with  a  congregation  who  watched,  with 
silent  curiosity,  the  breaking  of  bread  and  the  passing  of  the 
sacramental  cup  among  a  little  circle  of  disciples.  More 
attentive  listeners  no  speaker  could  have  desired.  For  the 
most  part,  in  addressing  native  audiences  through  an  inter- 
preter, one  observed  the  attention  of  the  hearers  divided 
between  speaker  and  interpreter ;  but  at  Chinsali,  when  the 
story  of  Christian's  encounters  with  the  lions  was  told,  the 
eyes  of  the  people  were  riveted  wholly  on  the  interpreter,  a 
sure  sign  that  the  story  was  going  home. 

In  that  primitive  church  the  Deputy  had  the  privilege  of 
baptising  seventeen  men.  Among  the  number  were  Joseph 
and  Potiphar,  Ananias  and  Herod  !  Pilate's  name  also  was 
on  the  list,  but  for  some  unexplained  reason  he  did  not  put 
in  an  appearance.  It  was  a  most  extraordinary  baptismal 
list.  Even  the  Doctor,  in  all  his  experience,  had  never  en- 
countered one  so  strange.  Yet,  why  should  it  be  accounted 
so  strange?  The  white  man,  having  made  his  pick  of 
Biblical  names,  ridicules  the  native  who  follows  his  example. 
Joseph  is  a  sensible  name ;  Potiphar  is  absurd.  Daniel  is 
all  right ;  Ezekiel  is  ridiculous.  David  has  no  pious  flavour 
about  it ;  Hezekiah  is  insufferable  cant. 

It  is  ignorantly  supposed  by  many  that  the  missionary 
directs  his  young  converts  to  these  Biblical  names,  and 
supervises  their  choice.  In  fact,  he  takes  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter,  except  in  some  missions  to  dissuade  from  their 
use,  in  which  case,  as  among  the  Blantyre  boys,  there 


ii8  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


springs  up  a  crop  of  George  Washingtons  and  William 
Gladstones.  Failing  such  names  of  high  respectability, 
others  will  be  chosen  of  a  very  different  flavour,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, Coffee  and  Damson  Jam. 

If  it  be  asked  why  any  change  of  name  is  made,  the  answer 
is  that  the  native,  ignorant  of  registration,  thinks  nothing  of 
changing  his  name,  and,  moreover,  he  is  accustomed  on 
important  occasions,  such  as  the  birth  of  his  first-born  son, 
to  have  a  new  name  conferred  upon  him.  It  is  therefore 
consonant  with  his  ideas  that  a  new  name  should  mark 
his  entrance  on  the  Christian  life.  The  practice  has  weighty 
Scriptural  support,  and  if  there  be  errors  in  taste,  these 
may  safely  be  left  to  work  their  own  cure. 

The  brief  but  memorable  week-end  at  Chinsali  was  over, 
and  early  on  Monday  morning  we  took  the  road.  The 
missionary  accompanied  us  to  the  top  of  the  forest  glen, 
and  put  us  on  the  southward  path.  Then  quietly  he 
turned  back  to  his  lonely  post.  To  one  at  least  of  that 
company  the  memory  of  him  abides  as  a  rebuke  and  an 
inspiration.  A  more  perfect  picture  of  patient,  unrewarded 
service  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive.  It  is  not  with 
him  as  with  the  Boma  man,  who,  in  his  youth,  enjoys  a  few 
years  of  wild  forest  life  in  the  reasonable  hope  of  promotion 
and  comparative  wealth.  For  him  there  is  no  promotion. 
He  has  grown  grey  in  the  forest,  and  amid  its  solitudes 
he  is — doomed,  men  would  say,  to  finish  his  life's  work. 
"  Now,  they  do  it  to  obtain  a  corruptible  crown,  but  he  an 
incorruptible." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CHAMELEON. 

The  chameleon  is  the  most  repulsively  deliberate  of  creep- 
ing things.  Its  motion  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a 
slow-moving,  inexorable  fate.  No  one  who  has  watched  it 
crawling  towards  its  unsuspecting  prey  by  fractions  of  an 
inch,  each  forward  step  a  succession  of  almost  imperceptible 
jerks,  can  ever  forget  the  sight.  In  complete  contrast  is 
the  motion  of  the  swift-running  lizard.  Resembling  the 
chameleon  in  shape,  this  bright  little  creature  runs  nimbly 
on  the  rocks,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  look  up  with 
all  the  pertness  of  a  sparrow. 

With  these  explanations  the  following  African  legend 
will  be  better  appreciated.  In  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
runs  the  legend,  God  sent  the  chameleon  with  a  message 
of  life  to  man.  Some  say  a  message  that  he  would  never 
die ;  others,  a  message  that  he  would  die  and  rise  again. 
The  chameleon  thought  there  was  no  hurry,  and  moved  ofif 
at  his  own  pace.  Afterwards  the  swift-running  lizard  was 
sent  with  a  message  of  death,  that  man  would  die  utterly. 
The  lizard  outran  the  chameleon  and  delivered  his  message 
first.  When  the  chameleon  arrived,  his  message  was 
laughed  at. 

It  is  a  profoundly  significant  legend,  and  one  wonders  if 
it  had  its  birth  in  some  dim  prevision  of  the  tardiness  of 
the  Christian  Church  in  bearing  God's  evangel  to  the 
heathen  world.  This  thought  kept  recurring  persistently 
as  we  travelled  south  from  Chinsali  through  the  neglected 
district  of  Mpika,  among  a  people  who  have  appealed 
impressively,  but  in  vain,  for  the  living  word.    The  story 

(119) 


120 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


of  that  appeal  is  told  in  an  official  document  of  a  most 
unusual  kind : — 

'  *  Extract  of  the  proceedings  at  a  meeting  of  the  chiefs 
of  the  Mpika  Sub-district  with  His  Honour  the  Admini- 
strator at  Mpika  on  the  first  day  of  July,  191 3. 

"  Present — All  the  chiefs  and  important  headmen  of  the 
Sub-district,  except  Mpepo  and  those  from  the  swamps. 

"The  Mpika  Station  official  staff,  A.  Kinghorn,  M.O., 
P.  C.  Cookson,  A.  C.  Dickenson,  and  His  Honour  the 
Administrator  (L.  A.  Wallace,  Esq.,  C.M.G.). 

"  After  the  usual  greetings  H.H.  the  Administrator 
informed  the  chiefs  and  people  that  he  had  nothing 
particular  to  communicate  to  them,  and  invited  them  to 
mention  any  matters  that  they  might  wish  to  bring  to  his 
notice. 

"In  reply  to  this,  Luchemb^  said,  'We  want  some 
education.  We  want  some  teachers  to  come  and  teach 
us  to  read  and  write.  Worship,  prayer,  and  hymns  may  be 
good,  but  we  want  to  learn  to  read  and  write.' 

"  H.H.  The  Administrator  inquired  if  the  White  Fathers' 
Mission  at  Chilonga  did  not  provide  them  with  such  edu- 
cation as  they  asked  for.  Luchemb^  replied  that  they  did 
not.  Hymns  and  prayers  were  all  that  were  taught  in  the 
villages. 

"  In  response  to  further  questions,  Luchemb^  said,  *  The 
native  teachers  from  Chilonga  stop  but  a  day  or  two  in  our 
villages,  and  when  they  go  away  they  do  not  return  for  a 
month  or  so '.  He  added,  '  We  know  and  respect  the 
Chilonga  Mission,  but  we  envy  our  neighbours  in  the 
Serenj^  and  Chinsali  districts.  The  White  Fathers  have 
been  here  many  years,  and  we  are  still  completely  ignorant. 
The  other  Mission  (Livingstonia)  has  been  but  a  short 
time  at  Chinsali  and  Serenj6,  and  there  are  many  natives 
in  those  districts  that  can  now  read  and  write.  We 
recognise  the  value  and  assistance  of  an  elementary 
education,  and  we  too  wish  to  enjoy  them.  We  want  the 
Livingstonia  Mission  asked  to  give  us  their  schools.* 

Masongo,  Wadya,  Kopa  and  others  that  were  asked 
their  views,  agreed  with  all  that  Luchemb6  had  said,  and 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CHAMELEOxN  121 


warmly  supported  his  request.  The  Messengers,  Mailmen, 
Police,  and  the  natives  of  the  Boma  village  (headman 
Kamati),  as  well  as  employees  in  the  service  of  Europeans, 
also  joined  the  appeal.    There  were  no  dissentients. 

"  His  Honour  The  Administrator^  in  reply,  said  that  he 
understood  and  sympathised  with  the  appeal,  and  would  do 
nothing  to  oppose  or  discourage  it.  At  the  same  time  it 
must  be  understood  that  there  was  no  question  of  the 
Administration  asking  the  Livingstonia  Mission  to  establish 
schools  in  the  district.  This  would  be  at  variance  with  the 
policy,  both  past  and  present,  adopted  by  the  Administra- 
tion towards  the  various  denominations  pursuing  mission- 
work  in  the  country.  The  request  had  been  spontaneously 
made  by  the  natives,  and  it  could  not  be  ignored,  but  the 
natives  themselves  should  convey  it  direct  {e.g.,  by  a 
deputation)  to  the  Mission  to  which  they  wished  to  apply. 

His  Honour  added  that  the  system  of  the  Livingstonia 
Mission  required  the  fulfilment  of  certain  obligations  by 
those  whom  it  consented  to  teach,  e.g.,  the  building  of 
school-houses  in  the  villages,  the  support  of  the  teacher 
(until  a  member  of  the  village  should  be  qualified  to  teach), 
and  the  payment  of  small  school  fees ;  and  he  further 
warned  them  that,  supposing  the  teachers  of  the  Living- 
stonia, or  of  any  other  Mission  whom  they  might  invite, 
were  to  come  in  response  to  their  appeal,  there  must  be  no 
kind  of  friction  between  the  adherents  or  teachers  of 
Chilonga  Mission  and  those  of  the  new. 

"To  this  the  natives  replied  that  they  had  no  wish  for 
any  friction,  and  would  do  their  best  to  avoid  it." 

(Signed)       E.  H.  Cholmeley, 

Nat.  Com.  and  Asst.  Magistrate, 

This  important  document  was  officially  communicated 
to  the  Mission  by  the  Government,  and  deputations  of 
natives,  as  suggested  by  the  Administrator,  visited  both 
Chinsali  and  Chitambo  to  urge  the  occupation  of  the 
Mpika  district.    A  full  report  of  the  whole  affair  was  sent 


122  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


home,  where  it  found  an  ignoble  grave  in  some  pigeon- 
hole without  ever  having  come  to  the  ears  of  the  Church 
to  which  it  was  addressed.  The  reason  given  for  the 
inaction  of  the  Home  Committee  was  the  impropriety  of 
encroaching  on  the  sphere  of  the  White  Fathers.  The 
excuse  came  strangely  from  a  Church  in  which  a  proposal 
to  start  a  great  Mission  in  Latin  America  was  being 
influentially  supported.  Still  more  strange  was  it  in  this 
case,  in  view  of  an  assurance  given  by  the  Administrator's 
secretary  in  a  covering  letter,  that  the  White  Fathers  were 
present  at  the  meeting  of  chiefs  and  said  they  had  no 
objection  to  the  proposal. 

On  our  southward  journey  we  visited  Chilonga,  which  is 
situated  fifteen  miles  south  of  the  Mpika  Boma.  Only  one 
Father  was  present,  and  with  him  we  conversed  with 
difficulty,  as  he  had  practically  no  English.  "  The — lawbor 
— men — want,"  was  his  idiom  to  express  the  fact  that 
labour  was  scarce.  His  Mission  worked  westward,  he  said, 
towards  Lake  Bangweolo  and  the  swamps,  and  attempted 
nothing  towards  the  east  and  the  Luangwa  valley.  That 
this  little  settlement  of  monks  from  Algiers  should  be 
accepted  by  a  great  Scottish  Church  as  a  substitute  for  a 
Presbyterian  and  educational  Mission  seemed  amazing. 
Apart  from  the  fact  that  it  was  Romanist,  and  not  Protes- 
tant, ritualistic  and  not  educational,  it  did  not,  in  point  of 
fact,  occupy  the  district.  And  even  if  it  did,  it  could 
surely  never  be  regarded  as  satisfactory  that  natives  in  a 
British  colony  should  be  under  the  spiritual  charge  of  men 
who  could  not  speak  the  English  language. 

Mpika  fills  the  wide  gap  of  200  miles  separating 
Chinsali  from  Chitambo.  It  is  the  one  missing  link  in  the 
wide  semicircle  of  hill  stations  that  surround  the  Luangwa 
valley,  the  one  nail  in  the  great  horseshoe  that  needs  to 
be  driven  home.  It  is  more  populous  than  the  Chitambo 
district,  yet  the  Church  which  has  passed  over  Mpika  pro- 
poses to  open  a  second  station  in  Chitambo,  crowding  its 
own  workers  into  a  corner  through  nervous  anxiety  to  give 
the  White  Fathers  plenty  of  elbow  room. 

One  could  wish  there  were  more  evidence  of  a  compre- 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CHAMELEON  123 


hensive  policy  governing  the  decisions  of  the  Home 
Committee.  A  great  missionary  Institution  has  been 
reared  in  the  hills  near  the  north  end  of  Lake  Nyasa,  the 
value  of  which  must  obviously  depend  on  the  support  of 
a  strong  native  church  within  easy  reach.  So  remote  from 
the  Institution  is  the  proposed  new  station,  that  Edinburgh 
could  be  reached  from  it  in  a  considerably  shorter  time. 
Mpika  is  a  fortnight's  journey  nearer  the  Institution,  and  if 
it  be  neglected  the  future  may  see  a  broad  wedge  of 
Romanism  driven  into  the  heart  of  Livingstonia. 

The  question  of  a  governing  policy  has  become  more 
urgent  by  the  expulsion  of  the  Germans  from  East  Africa. 
The  south-west  districts  of  that  colony  are  nearer  the 
Institution  at  Mt.  Waller  than  are  the  southern  stations  of 
the  Mission.  The  north  half  of  the  Winamwanga  and  the 
Wankonde  are  now  accessible.  At  the  head  of  the  lake, 
within  100  miles  of  the  Institution,  is  a  populous  and  fertile 
valley,  where  the  natives  will  tell  you,  with  grateful  remem- 
brance of  their  deliverance  from  Mlozi,  that  their  country 
belongs  neither  to  the  Germans  nor  to  the  British,  but  to 
Mr.  Moir  and  Mr.  Monteezee  (Monteith).  German  missions, 
the  Berlin  and  the  Moravians,  have  broken  ground  in  these 
districts,  but  it  may  be  taken  for  certain  that  these  will  not  be 
resumed.  Apart  from  questions  of  Germany's  financial  ability 
to  support  them,  and  of  Britain's  willingness  to  tolerate  them, 
German  Missionary  Societies  have  given  indication  that 
their  future  policy  will  be,  Never  again  under  the  British 
flag".  In  these  circumstances  the  only  wise  and  natural 
line  of  expansion  for  the  Scots  Mission  is  towards  the 
north.  It  touches,  too,  the  national  honour  to  see  to  it 
that  native  races  are  not  worse  off,  religiously,  under  British 
rule  than  they  were  under  German.  Here  religion  and 
patriotism  make  their  joint  appeal,  and  if  in  a  great  world 
crisis  it  be  not  worthily  responded  to,  then  ought  the  Scots 
Church,  in  simple  honesty,  to  blot  out  from  her  escutcheon 
the  emblem  of  the  flying  dove,  swift  messenger  of  peace, 
and  pursue  her  sluggish  march  under  the  sign  of  the 
chameleon. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


CHITAMBO. 

Chitambo  is  one  of  the  historic  names  of  Central  Africa. 
Originally  the  name  of  a  petty  chief  of  the  Walala,  it  rose 
into  world-wide  fame  when  the  illustrious  David  Livingstone 
died  at  Chitambo's  village,  and  his  heart  was  buried  there. 
Associating  the  name  with  the  death-weariness  of  the  great 
traveller,  with  pelting  rain  and  steaming  swamps,  and  the 
depression  of  gloomy  forest  depths,  one  was  prepared  to 
encounter  climatic  conditions  of  an  exceptionally  trying 
kind.  The  actual  experience  was  a  rare  and  glorious 
surprise.  The  so-called  Old  Chitambo  of  the  maps  does 
not  now  exist.  The  chief  and  his  people  migrated  to  the 
west,  and  no  trace  of  their  village  remains,  But  fifty  miles 
away,  on  a  broad  breezy  upland,  the  industry  of  Mr. 
Moffat  has  created  the  new  Chitambo,  which  will  be  the 
permanent  memorial  of  David  Livingstone.  Reverence 
for  the  memory  of  the  dead  would  have  suggested  that  the 
memorial  mission  should  be  planted  near  the  grave,  but 
the  excessive  prevalence  of  the  tsetse  among  the  swamps 
made  that  impossible.  The  site  chosen  is  on  the  very 
summit  of  the  watershed,  where  the  nights  are  cool  and 
there  is  an  exhilarating  sense  of  space  and  air.  From  the 
roof  of  the  Mission-house  a  wide  view  is  obtained  over 
a  sparsely  wooded  country.  Five  miles  away  is  Moir's 
Lake,  most  irresolute  of  waters,  named  after  the  most 
resolute  of  men.  So  nicely  is  it  poised  on  the  broad 
watershed  that  it  oozes  out  at  one  end  to  the  Zambesi  and 
at  the  other  end  to  the  Congo. 

The  progress  achieved  in  a'  few  years  at  the  Mission  is 
astonishing.    A  more  capable  pioneer  it  would  have  been 

(124) 


CHITAMBO 


125 


impossible  to  find  than  Mr.  Mofifat,  both  by  natural  relation- 
ship as  the  nephew  of  Mrs.  Livingstone  and  the  grandson 
of  Robert  Moffat,  as  well  as  by  lifelong  experience  of 
African  life.  The  plan  of  the  Mission-station  is  on  bold 
and  ample  lines.  The  various  buildings  are  grouped 
irregularly.  The  Mission-house  faces  the  school  and  the 
teachers'  huts ;  behind  these  are  the  store  and  the  printing 
press  ;  to  the  left  the  doctor's  house  and  the  new  hospital. 
Broad  roads  lead  off  in  every  direction  through  fields  of 
milesi  and  amasaka^  while  down  by  the  stream  is  a  care- 
fully irrigated  garden.  The  whole  might  well  have  stood 
for  the  fruit  of  a  lifetime  of  labour,  and  it  supplies  a 
striking  illustration  of  what  one  capable  and  vigorous  man 
can  do  to  make  the  wilderness  blossom  as  the  rose. 

To  us  at  least  Chitambo  appeared  a  veritable  oasis  in  the 
desert,  a  home  of  rest  for  wayworn  travellers.  Our  march 
had  been  long  and  weary,  through  a  fly-infested  and  hungry 
land.  Often  did  we  think  with  longing  of  the  brimming 
pots  of  milk  in  the  villages  around  Mwenzo.  Food  for  the 
carriers  was  scarce,  and  our  own  supplies  ran  short.  Milesi 
porridge,  with  milk,  is  palatable  enough,  but  when  the  meal 
is  ground  by  a  native  woman  at  the  door  of  her  hut,  and 
swept  up  off  the  clay  floor,  it  cannot  be  over  clean,  and 
served  with  sugar,  and — when  sugar  failed — with  marmalade, 
was  anything  but  appetising.  After  these  experiences 
came  Chitambo,  where  we  rested  under  a  hospitable  roof 
and  enjoyed  again  the  luxury  of  fresh  milk.  Only  those 
who  have  paid  the  price  can  realise  the  pleasure  of  satisfy- 
ing Nature's  simple  wants.  Doubtless  the  forty  years  in 
the  wilderness  gave  Israel  a  rare  appetite  for  the  land  flow- 
ing with  milk  and  honey.    Such  was  Chitambo  to  us. 

Here  let  me  pay  my  humble  tribute  to  the  lady  of  the 
Mission-house,  not  of  Chitambo  alone,  but  of  many  another 
station.  King  Lemuel's  mother  must  have  had  a  vision  of 
her  when  she  chanted  that  immortal  eulogy  to  her  son : 
"  Her  price  is  above  rubies,  the  law  of  kindness  is  in  her 
tongue."  With  a  heart  made  very  tender  by  loneliness,  and 
often  by  separation  from  her  children,  she  has  a  rare 
welcome  for  the  stranger.    At  times  she  falls  a  victim  to 


126 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


some  globe-trotter  who  sits  at  her  table,  devouring  her  sub«= 
stance,  and  afterwards  writes  sneeringly  of  Missions.  She 
may  even  find  herself  pilloried  by  name  for  her  manner  of 
conducting  her  household.  It  is  understood,  of  course, 
that  being  only  a  missionary,  she  has  no  refinement  of 
feeling,  and  is  not  to  be  treated  according  to  the  laws  of 
good  breeding.  Her  guest  overnight  has  even  been  known 
to  purloin  a  blanket.  Yet  she  takes  it  all  with  inexhaust- 
ible philosophy  and  good  humour.  For  she,  too,  has  a 
mission.  Her  household  management  is  an  essential  ele- 
ment in  the  elevation  of  the  natives.  The  boys  and  girls 
trained  under  her  hand  begin  to  know  the  meaning  of  a 
Christian  home.  With  them  she  is  infinitely  sympathetic 
and  tolerant.  Not  that  she  is  blind  to  their  faults,  but 
she  sees  deep  enough  to  comprehend  and  excuse  them. 
Her  house-girls  are  not  stupid,  she  explains ;  they  are  just 
bewildered  ;  they  are  not  lazy,  but  simply  suffering  from 
brain  fag. 

Seeing  your  smile  she  proceeds  to  make  her  points  good. 
"  I  take  a  raw  girl  into  the  house,  and  she  has  no  names 
even  for  the  simplest  things.  She  must  learn  to  distinguish 
soup-plates,  meat-plates,  pudding-plates,  tea-plates  and 
saucers.  Also  varieties  of  knives  and  spoons.  In  her 
vocabulary  the  little  plates  are  the  children  of  the  big  plates, 
and  the  bowls  are  the  children  of  the  basins.  The  whole 
house  is  a  factory  of  strange  machinery,  and  the  household 
arrangements  a  mysterious  ceremonial.  To-day  I  reprove 
her  for  leaving  out  the  bread  till  it  is  hard,  and  yesterday  I 
reproved  her  for  leaving  out  the  biscuits  till  they  were  soft. 
She  looks  the  picture  of  stupidity,  but  it  is  bewilderment, 
sheer  bewilderment,  and  it  leads  to  brain  fag.  Every  day 
her  work  demands  a  sustained  mental  effort  from  a  brain 
that  has  never  been  accustomed  to  effort.  Even  with  the 
gentlest  treatment  she  is  fagged  out  in  three  months,  and  I 
send  her  home  to  her  village  for  a  rest.  By  and  by  she 
will  come  back  and  make  a  fresh  and  more  hopeful  start." 

As  one  listened  one  saw  the  reasonableness  of  it  all,  saw 
also  the  unresison  of  the  colonial  housewife  who  declaims 
against  the  incurable  laziness  of  her  Kafir  servant.    "  Just 


CHITAMBO 


127 


when  I  had  begun  to  get  him  into  my  way,  he  said  he  was 
tired  and  went  home  to  his  kraal." 

The  home  at  Chitambo  had  the  crowning  charm  of  boy 
Hfe.  Robert  Laws  and  John  Mofifat,  gallant  little  fellows 
of  illustrious  name,  one  might  travel  far  to  find  another  pair 
of  brothers  to  match  them.  Royal  times  we  had  together. 
We  broke  in  a  yoke  of  wayward  calves  till  we  could  steer 
our  chariot  of  a  log  triumphantly,  if  erratically,  round  the 
station.  We  sat  under  the  shadow  of  the  house,  deep  in  the 
mysteries  of  chisoloy  the  great  African  game  which  puzzles 
every  traveller  as  he  watches  it  played  in  the  villages.  It 
has  even  been  declared  to  be  incomprehensible  by  any  but 
an  African  mind,  but  John  and  Robert  were  experts,  as  they 
had  a  right  to  be,  for  nothing  African  is  hidden  from  them. 
These  were  sunny  days,  and  I  crave  the  forgiveness  of  my 
little  chums,  if  I  tell  a  story  at  their  expense.  Their 
grandfather,  the  most  venerable  citizen  of  Cape  Town,  had 
come  to  see  them.  The  boys  regarded  him  with  reverent 
awe,  mingled  with  boyish  curiosity. 

"  Are  you  old.  Grandpa  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  Yes,  I  am  old,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Are  you  very  old  ?  " 
"  Yes,  I  am  very  old." 

"Were  you  in  the  ark,  Grandpa?"  queried  Robert. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  was  not  in  the  ark." 

"  Then,  how  were  you  not  drowned  ?  " 

Such  is  the  perspective  of  the  ages  as  seen  through  the 
happy  eyes  of  childhood. 

Our  visit  to  Chitambo  was  made  the  occasion  for  a  series 
of  special  services.  The  school  being  inadequate  to  contain 
the  people,  a  stockade  of  elephant  grass  was  built,  in  which 
was  a  low  platform  with  an  awning  of  thatch.  Here  the 
people  met  daily.  At  the  close  of  one  of  the  meetings  a 
fine  young  chief,  with  a  frank,  engaging  face,  came  forward 
and  was  introduced.  His  entrance  into  the  Palace  Beauti- 
ful had  not  been  without  difficulty.  He  was  a  polygamist 
with  two  wives,  to  the  second  of  whom  he  was  deeply 
attached.  The  demand  of  the  Church  was  that  she  should 
be  put  away,  and  the  other  retained  as  his  only  lawful  wife. 


128 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


The  distracted  husband  was  literally  in  a  strait  betwixt  two. 
At  last  he  complied  with  the  Christian  law  and  was  admitted 
to  the  membership  of  the  Church.  Some  years  after,  on 
the  death  of  his  wife,  he  went  to  the  woman  he  loved  and 
asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  consented  to  return,  but  re- 
fused to  be  remarried,  saying,  I  have  been  your  wife  all 
the  time 

"  And  I  thought  all  the  more  of  her  for  saying  it,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Moffat,  with  a  fine  defiance  of  ecclesiastical 
law. 

On  Sunday  the  congregation  was  counted  as  they  entered 
the  enclosure,  and  found  to  number  sixteen  hundred  and 
seventy-two.  Twenty-two  men,  ten  women,  and  six 
children  were  baptised,  while  seventy  were  admitted  as 
catechumens.  All  this  in  the  remote  and  dark  region 
where  Livingstone  died,  and  where,  a  few  years  ago,  the 
ranks  of  heathenism  were  unbroken.  One  had  seen  larger 
crowds  elsewhere  and  more  advanced  communities,  but 
nothing  more  thrilling  to  the  imagination,  nothing  more 
big  with  promise  for  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


AT  LIVINGSTONE'S  GRAVE. 

On  Monday  morning  I  set  out  from  Chitambo  with  a  dozen 
carriers  to  visit  the  monument  which  marks  the  spot  where 
Livingstone's  heart  is  buried.  Irak,  one  of  the  teachers, 
was  my  guide  and  interpreter.  Moffat  insisted  on  our 
taking  a  rifle  and  a  pocketful  of  cartridges,  in  case  of  en- 
countering a  lion  by  the  way. 

"  My  experience  is,"  he  said,  calmly  explaining  how  the 
thing  was  done,  "that  if  you  stand  your  ground  the  lion  will 
stop  about  five  paces  off  before  it  springs.  Then  is  your 
chance." 

This  was  very  well  for  a  dead  shot,  who,  the  previous 
week  had  brought  down  two  hartebeests  with  successive 
bullets,  reloaded  and  knocked  over  a  third  as  the  herd  were 
galloping  away.  To  him  a  lion  at  five  paces  was  as  good 
as  dead,  but  I  could  feel  no  such  confidence.  However, 
as  he  was  imperative,  I  took  the  rifle  and  pocketed  the 
cartridges.  Only  on  our  safe  return  did  he  explain  the 
reason  of  his  anxiety.  A  gang  of  boys,  whom  he  had  sent 
shortly  before  to  clear  the  bush  round  the  monument,  had 
been  scared  away  by  lions,  and  one  of  them,  who  unluckily 
met  a  lion  in  the  path,  left  only  a  shred  of  calico  to  tell  the 
tale. 

The  first  day  the  going  was  easy,  as  the  path  went  wind- 
ing steadily  down  hill  from  the  watershed  towards  the 
swampy  basin  in  which  Lake  Bangweolo  lies.  At  one 
point,  however,  an  elephant  had  struck  the  path  in  the 
rainy  season  when  the  ground  was  soft,  and  walked  along  it 
for  several  miles.  His  ponderous  feet  had  left  cavities  the 
size  of  a  large  pot,  and  about  six  inches  deep.    Then  one 

(129)  9 


130 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


understood  a  remark  of  Livingstone's  in  his  last  journal 
about  the  fatigue  and  difficulty  of  following  a  path  which 
had  been  traversed  by  an  elephant. 

Our  journey  prolonged  itself  for  nearly  three  hours  after 
sunset,  but  fortunately  there  was  a  moon.  As  the  tsetse 
were  particularly  bad  here  I  had  my  head  enveloped  in  a  - 
veil,  but  in  the  moonlight  I  dispensed  with  it,  having  just 
read  that  the  tsetse  never  bite  after  dark.  The  result  was 
a  most  troublesome  bite  in  the  neck  as  a  warning  against 
credulity.  At  length  we  reached  the  Mulembo  River,  which 
we  crossed  with  difficulty  on  a  rustic  bridge  suspended 
among  the  branches  of  the  overhanging  trees.  A  steep 
climb  up  the  opposite  bank  brought  us  to  the  village  of 
Katowawula,  where  we  were  fain  to  lie  down  together 
and  sleep  on  the  floor  of  the  little  school  without  waiting 
to  form  camp. 

Early  next  morning  I  stepped  out  of  the  school.  The 
air  was  fresh  and  clear.  The  village  stood  high  and  com- 
manded a  wide  view  of  the  forest.  Suddenly  a  villager 
started  to  thunder  on  a  drum  at  my  side. 

"What  is  this  for?"  I  asked  Irak. 

"They  come  to  pray,"  was  his  answer,  spoken  with 
beautiful  simplicity. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  people  had  gathered  round  the 
school  door.  Irak  led  the  service,  and  interpreted  like  a 
very  Hermes.  Nothing  could  have  been  finer  than  his 
choice  of  an  opening  hymn,  "Glory  be  to  God  the  Father," 
sung  to  the  stately  tune  of  Regent  Square.  As  the  music 
rose  on  the  still  air,  and  we  looked  out  over  leagues  of 
forest  gilded  by  the  morning  sun,  it  was  a  moment  of  pro- 
found emotion. 

Taking  the  road  again  we  soon  reached  lower  ground, 
and  now  began  a  weary  wrestle  through  the  swamps  where 
the  long  grass,  as  stiff  as  canes,  met  overhead  and  often 
completely  blocked  our  way.  One  could  only  faintly 
imagine  what  it  must  have  been  like  when  Livingstone 
passed  at  the  end  of  the  rainy  season  with  the  swamps 
flooded  and  "the  pitiless  pelting  showers  wetting  every- 
thing".   The  task  lie  had  set  himself  was  to  travel  round 


AT  LIVINGSTONE'S  GRAVE 


131 


the  south  end  of  Bangvveolo,  and,  having  reached  the  point 
at  which  the  Luapula  flows  out  of  the  lake,  follow  its  course 
and  determine  whether  it  led  to  the  Congo  or  the  Nile.  A 
hopeless  task  it  would  have  proved,  even  had  his  strength 
not  failed,  for  so  deep  and  labyrinthine  are  the  swamps 
around  the  lake  that  the  outlet  of  the  river  has  never  yet 
been  determined  with  precision. 

In  the  early  afternoon  we  reached  Chitono's,  the  village 
nearest  the  monument,  though  several  miles  away.  The 
chief  remembers  having  seen  Livingstone,  as  also  does  the 
old  blacksmith,  who  sat  on  the  ground  grimly  puffing  his 
goatskin  bellows  while  the  boys  played  chisolo  beside  his 
forge.  But  they  refused  to  be  drawn.  They  were  too 
young,  they  protested,  to  remember  anything.  Wily  old 
Africans,  it  was  simply  their  way  of  saying,  why  should 
they  give  themselves  away  to  a  mere  stranger  ?  At  other 
times,  and  among  friends,  they  can  tell  the  story  graphically 
enough. 

We  pushed  on  through  the  forest,  crossed  two  more 
swamps  and  then  suddenly,  as  we  emerged  from  the  second, 
came  face  to  face  with  the  monument.  To  the  natives  the 
spot  is  known  as  Chipundu,  and  no  fitter  name  could  be 
given,  for  the  tree  under  which  Livingstone's  heart  is  buried, 
commonly  called  an  mvula  tree,  is  in  the  language  of  Ilala, 
a  chipundu. 

The  monument  stands  in  the  centre  of  a  square  clearing 
in  the  forest.  The  four  sides  of  the  clearing,  each  about 
100  yards  in  length,  are  marked  off  with  an  edging  of 
brick.  The  square  is  hoed  clean,  and  the  firm  grey  soil  has 
the  general  appearance  of  fine  gravel.  Round  the  monu- 
ment a  few  dark  cypress  trees  have  been  planted.  The  line 
of  the  square  is  broken  on  the  middle  of  the  east  side,  where 
a  broad  hoed  road  runs  straight  back  into  the  forest  for  200 
yards.  It  leads  to  a  little  cottage,  built  as  a  rest-house 
for  any  visitor  to  the  grave.  Beside  the  rest-house  are  a 
few  native  huts  for  the  accommodation  of  carriers,  but  they 
were  half  in  ruins. 

Barely  had  we  time  to  take  in  all  this,  however,  for  the 
moment  we  stepped  into  the  square,  with  head  uncovered, 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


we  were  furiously  set  upon  by  swarms  of  tsetse.  We  had 
previously  passed  through  several  fly  areas,  but  for  rush 
and  fury  had  encountered  nothing  like  the  flies  at  the 
monument.  In  vain  we  thrashed  about  us  with  leafy 
branches.  They  swarmed  on  us  like  bees,  and  we  were 
compelled  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the  rest-house  and  slam 
the  door.  One  might  write  a  volume  on  the  plague  and 
peril  of  the  tsetse.  Beyond  comparison  it  is  man's  deadliest 
enemy  in  Central  Africa,  more  hurtful  and  horrible  by  far 
than  all  the  varied  tribes  of  beasts  of  prey.  The  tsetse 
has  the  persistence  of  the  midge,  the  gluttony  of  the  blue- 
bottle, the  lightning  dart  of  the  cleg,  the  diabolical  in- 
genuity of  the  mosquito,  with  a  catalogue  of  devilish 
qualities  all  its  own.  And  now,  as  the  convicted  carrier 
of  sleeping  sickness,  it  has  been  branded  with  its  last  title 
of  horror. 

By  sunset  the  last  of  the  carriers  came  in  switching 
vigorously  with  branches,  and  all  took  refuge  in  the  rest- 
house.  It  may  have  been  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  or 
perhaps  the  sad  associations  of  the  place,  but  I  thought  I 
had  never  seen  the  twilight  fall  so  mournfully.  Perhaps  it 
was  in  such  a  twilight  that  Livingstone  wrote  in  his  diary 
near  the  end,  "  Nothing  earthly  shall  make  me  give  up  my 
work  in  despair".  One  thought  of  the  awful  crawl  of  the 
last  week  which  brought  his  mighty  wanderings  to  a  close. 
"April  22nd — 2\  hours,  23rd — i-J  hours,  24th — i  hour, 
25th — I  hour,  26th — 2^  hours."  A  total  of  8 J  hours,  less 
than  we  had  done  that  day !  Each  of  these  swampy 
hollows  a  day's  journey  ! 

After  dark  the  young  moon  silvered  the  tree-tops  and 
gleamed  on  the  monument  at  the  far  end  of  the  glade.  It 
was  interesting  to  find  from  the  Last  Journals  that  the 
same  crescent  moon  was  looking  down  on  the  world  the 
night  he  died.  As  the  tsetse  had  by  this  time  retired,  I 
proposed  to  the  carrier  boys  a  moonlight  visit  to  the  grave. 
It  was  plain  the  suggestion  had  no  attraction  for  them. 
Besides  being  wholly  unromantic,  they  were  tired  with  the 
journey  and  nervous  about  lions.  Gallant  little  Irak,  how- 
ever, took  his  spear,  my  faithful  Jumari  lit  the  lamp  which 


AT  LIVINGSTONE'S  GRAVE 


he  had  now  carried  for  800  miles,  and  with  one  of  the 
carriers  following  us  we  strolled  down  the  glade. 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight. 

Certainly  the  words  may  be  applied  with  equal  truth  to 
Chipundu.  The  pyramid  gleaming  like  white  marble 
above  the  dark  surrounding  cypresses,  the  still  solemnity 
of  the  encircling  forest,  the  crescent  moon  sailing  overhead, 
made  an  utterly  unique  and  unforgettable  picture. 

It  was  a  perfect  night,  when  one  would  fain  have  strolled 
for  miles  through  the  dim  forest,  but  the  pleasure  of  a 
moonlight  walk  would  have  been  bought  at  too  terrible  a 
risk.  In  Central  Africa  night  always  brings  the  lurking 
dread  of  the  beast  of  prey.  So  we  returned  to  the  rest- 
house,  where  the  boys  were  already  stretched  on  the  floor 
in  sleep. 

Opening  the  window  I  leaned  out  for  a  while,  drinking 
in  the  cool  night  air  and  letting  the  stillness  and  solitude 
wrap  me  round.  Just  on  such  a  night  as  this  he  died. 
These  half-ruined  huts,  dimly  seen  in  the  moonlight,  might 
be  the  very  huts  built  by  his  men.  With  but  little 
imagination  one  could  repeople  them.  Among  the  dim 
shadows  of  the  trees  a  figure  moves  about,  touching  one 
and  another  into  wakefulness  as  they  lie  round  the  embers 
of  the  watchfires.  They  sit  up  and  talk  in  hurried  whispers, 
they  gather  about  the  hut  door,  fearfully  they  stoop  down 
and  peer  in.  Alas,  it  is  true.  Their  great  leader  is  dead. 
At  that  moment  a  light  breeze  touches  the  tree-tops  like 
the  passing  flutter  of  an  angel's  wing.  It  sends  a  far-heard 
whisper  through  the  stillness  of  the  forest,  and  one  wakens 
as  from  a  dream.  Did  ever  a  human  soul  pass  upward  to 
God  out  of  so  vast  and  terrible  a  solitude? 

Next  morning  we  were  astir  at  dawn,  and,  as  the  tsetse 
give  little  trouble  till  towards  the  heat  of  the  day,  we  spent 
a  delightful  half  hour  at  the  monument.  Irak,  with  his 
spear  beside  him,  conducted  the  service  and  acted  as 
interpreter.    He  gave  out  the  hymn — 


Let  us  with  a  gladsome  mind 
Praise  the  Lord  for  He  is  kind. 


134 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


which  we  sang  in  Chiwisa  to  the  old  familiar  tune.  I  loved 
that  boy  for  his  choice  of  hynins.  Then  he  prayed.  After 
that  I  told  as  simply  as  I  could  the  story  of  Livingstone's 
death  and  of  his  faithful  followers,  also  of  his  country's 
love  of  him  and  of  Africa  for  his  sake.  One  could  not  but 
feel  a  thrill  in  saying,  His  heart  lies  buried  here".  The 
little  group  of  carriers  sat  in  front,  very  quiet  and  motion- 
less. How  much  of  the  story  they  were  taking  in  it  would 
be  impossible  to  say,  but  among  them  were  two  bright- 
eyed  lads,  Changwi  and  Chikumb6,  who  had  followed  their 
fathers  on  this  trip  just  for  the  fun  of  the  road,  and  had 
come  in,  the  night  before,  limping  badly,  but  still  game  and 
smiling.  Be  sure  when  they  got  home  they  would  have 
something  to  tell. 

A  few  moments  more  and  the  carriers  had  shouldered 
their  loads  and  were  striding  off,  for  we  had  a  long  day 
before  us.  In  half  a  dozen  paces  the  long  grass  of  the 
swamp  shut  out  the  monument  from  our  sight,  but  left  it 
in  one  mind  at  least  a  most  holy  and  imperishable  memory. 

In  the  rest-house  we  had  left  a  book  in  which  the  rare 
visitor  to  the  grave  might  inscribe  his  name.  A  sheet  of 
paper,  which  had  previously  done  duty  for  a  visitor's  book, 
and  which  contained  some  highly  interesting  names,  had 
unfortunately  been  destroyed.  Afterwards  we  learnt  with 
the  utmost  pleasure  that  the  first  names  to  be  inscribed  in 
the  book  were  the  names  of  Livingstone's  own  grand- 
children. Dr.  Wilson  and  his  sister,  on  reaching  Chitambo, 
to  which  they  had  been  appointed,  paid  a  visit  to  the  grave, 
and  at  the  same  time  made  a  tour  of  the  neighbouring 
villages  to  introduce  themselves  to  the  people  among  whom 
they  expected  to  find  their  life's  work. 

A  notable  occurrence  surely !  Men  die  in  the  fond  hope 
that  their  bodies  will  be  laid  with  kindred  dust,  and  that 
some  who  love  them  will  stand  beside  their  grave  and 
bring  them  to  remembrance.  No  such  hope  could  have 
cheered  the  last  hours  of  Livingstone.  Sundered  from  his 
wife's  grave  by  half  a  continent,  and  from  his  family  by 
half  the  circle  of  the  globe,  if  he  thought  at  all  about  it,  he 
must  have  concluded  that  his  grave  in  the  depth  of  the 


AT  LIVINGSTONE'S  GRAVE 


135 


forest  would  be  for  ever  unknown  to  his  friends,  and  be 
trodden  on  by  the  careless  foot  of  wild  beast  and  savage. 
Yet  the  spot  has  become  one  of  earth's  sacred  places,  and 
after  nearly  half  a  century  his  family  come  to  visit  and 
tend  it  with  pious  care. 

Dr.  Livingstone's  grandson  begins  his  career  as  a  mis- 
sionary physician  at  the  spot  where  his  grandfather  laid  his 
work  down.  Seldom  does  an  event  occur  that  so  completely 
satisfies  the  mind  by  its  dramatic  fitness.  Thus  the  good 
cause  advances  in  spite  of  death,  or  rather  through  it.  For 
"  except  a  corn  of  wheat  fall  into  the  ground  and  die,  it 
abideth  alone,  but  if  it  die  it  bringeth  forth  much  fruit 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


CHIPANDWE'S  DAY. 

When  I  first  caught  sight  of  Chipandwe,  she  was  dancing 
along  the  forest  path  in  front  of  me  Hke  a  Httle  brown  fairy, 
waving  her  hands  merrily  above  her  head  in  the  morning 
sun.  We  were  returning  from  Livingstone's  grave,  and  had 
slept  the  previous  night  at  Katowawula.  In  the  morning 
we  started  early,  for  we  had  thirty  miles  to  go  to  the  Mission- 
house  at  Chitambo,  and  these  thirty  miles  were  to  be 
Chipandw6's  Marathon. 

The  people  accompanied  us  down  to  the  river  which  flows 
within  steep  banks  below  their  village,  and  helped  us  over 
the  rustic  bridge.  The  girls  took  the  carriers'  loads  and 
tripped  nimbly  across.  They  seemed  to  regard  the  bridge 
as  a  thoroughly  reliable  and  satisfactory  structure,  though 
to  us  it  appeared  even  crazier  than  when  we  crept  across  it 
in  the  moonlight  on  the  outward  journey.  After  cheery 
good-byes  the  villagers  turned  back,  and  our  little  line  of 
carriers  went  on. 

It  was  then  that  I  noticed  Chipandwe.  On  my  asking 
Irak  who  she  was,  he  explained  that  her  uncle  was  going 
with  her  and  her  brother  on  a  visit  to  a  village  near  Chit- 
ambo, and  had  taken  advantage  of  our  company  for  safety 
in  passing  through  the  forest.  It  was  no  uncommon  thing 
to  pick  up  travellers  in  this  way,  for  a  solitary  journey  is 
always  somewhat  risky. 

Chipandw6,  or  Chip  for  short,  could  not  have  been  more 
than  six  years  old.  Her  only  dress  was  a  loincloth  with 
a  string  of  blue  and  white  beads  round  her  neck.  But  she 
was  a  remarkably  smart  and  dainty-stepping  little  thing. 


CHIPANDWE'S  DAY  137 


and  as  frisky  as  a  kitten.  She  kept  well  to  the  front  of  the 
line  of  carriers,  and  when  we  came  to  a  dambo,  where  the 
grass  might  be  eight  or  ten  feet  high,  it  was  charming  to 
watch  her  boring  through  like  a  wee  mouse,  with  her  two 
tiny  brown  hands  held  high  in  front  of  her  face  and  all  the 
fingers  outspread. 

At  first  she  was  very  shy  of  me,  having  rarely  and  per- 
haps never  seen  a  white  face  before,  but  gradually  she  grew 
less  timid,  and  we  began  to  make  friends.  It  happened 
that  the  back  tyre  of  my  cycle  had  burst  at  Chitono's  the 
day  before,  and  I  had  to  foot  it  all  the  way.  Chip  was 
going  splendidly,  but  about  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  I 
thought  she  must  be  getting  tired  and  would  relish  a  ride 
on  the  cycle.  At  first  she  was  frightened,  and  clung  des- 
perately to  my  shoulder,  but  very  soon  she  saw  she  had 
struck  a  good  thing,  and  that  a  cycle  is  a  better  friend  on  a 
long  journey  than  an  old  uncle.  From  that  time  she  stuck 
to  the  cycle  the  whole  day,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  short 
ride  every  few  miles. 

About  noon  we  rested  for  an  hour  and  then  pushed  on 
through  the  heat  of  the  day.  Chip  kept  up  so  pluckily  that 
I  began  to  feel  quite  proud  of  my  little  chum,  as  she  pattered 
on  in  front  with  her  head  well  back  and  her  brown  feet 
twinkling  on  the  path.  Her  mother  had  dressed  her  hair 
in  the  morning  with  home-made  castor  oil,  and  now,  in  the 
great  heat,  it  ran  glistening  down  her  neck.  I  plucked  a 
bright-red  starry  flower  with  two  spear-shaped  leaves  and 
stuck  it  in  her  hair.  It  nestled  in  the  black,  wiry  curls  like 
a  tiny  crown  and  wings,  and  was  the  one  touch  needed  to 
make  her  a  perfect  miniature  of  Winged  Victory,  as  a  Greek 
might  have  said. 

By  this  time  we  had  drawn  ahead  of  the  carriers,  and  only 
the  cycle-boy  and  the  boy  with  the  rifle  were  with  us.  The 
uncle  kept  up  for  a  while,  but  he  also  dropped  behind. 
Chip  never  faltered  nor  looked  back.  We  had  hoped  to 
reach  Chitambo  by  sunset,  but  now  the  sun  hung  low  and 
our  shadows  lengthened  in  front  of  us. 

About  sunset  the  forest  broke  away,  and  we  came  out  on 
a  wide  moor  where  the  cool  air  was  welcome  to  me,  but 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


chilly  for  my  companions.  In  the  middle  of  the  moor  was 
a  village,  and  we  went  through  it  in  single  file,  looking 
neither  to  right  nor  left  The  villagers  trotted  behind  and 
on  either  side  of  us,  but  Chip  never  turned  her  head  nor 
paid  the  least  regard.  I  laughed  to  see  her.  It  was  so 
absurdly  like  the  pictures  one  remembered  of  some  world 
champion  finishing  the  last  lap.  Had  a  crowd  of  London 
journalists  been  there  recording  she  could  not  have  stepped 
out  more  gallantly. 

Suddenly  a  voice  at  my  elbow  said,  "Good  evening, 
Sair 

•'Good  evening,"  I  said,  without  stopping.    ''Can  you 
speak  English  ? " 
"  A  leetle,  Sair." 

"  How  far  to  Chitambo,"  I  asked. 
*'  Seex  mile,"  he  replied. 

"  Tut,"  I  snorted  scornfully,  and  marched  on.  A  native 
has  little  idea  of  distance  by  our  measurement.  I  have 
heard  a  man  say  sixty  miles  when  it  was  only  two.  But, 
alas,  in  this  case  the  report  was  only  too  accurate,  six  long, 
weary  miles,  if  not  more,  ere  we  reached  our  journey's 
end. 

The  sun  set  as  we  left  the  village,  and  we  entered  the 
forest  again.  Fortunately  there  was  a  good  moon,  and  we 
plodded  on  through  a  succession  of  forest  and  dambo^  al- 
ways hoping  the  next  stretch  would  be  the  last.  Up  and 
up  the  rolling  slope  we  went,  feeling  that  Africa's  backbone 
was  terribly  broad.  What  had  been  easy  going  on  the 
outward  journey  was  a  different  proposition  going  home. 
The  forest  glades  looked  ghostly  in  the  moonlight,  and  one 
wondered  uneasily  how  far  off  the  nearest  leopard  or  lion 
might  chance  to  be. 

Just  as  I  felt  sure  we  must  be  almost  home,  the  two 
boys  stop  and  sign  that  they  can  go  no  farther  without 
a  rest  and  a  smoke.  Of  course,  they  have  no  glimmer  of 
an  idea  of  record  breaking.  It  is  most  annoying  for  my 
little  Marathon  runner,  but  what  can  we  do?  I  light  a 
bunch  of  grass  and  sit  down  to  wait  till  the  smoke  is  over. 


CHIPAxNDWfi'S  DAY 


139 


Chip  creeps  in  between  my  knees  for  warmth,  like  the 
dearest  wee  pet  that  ever  was,  and  while  the  boys  puff 
their  common  pipe,  we  share  a  drink  out  of  the  water- 
bottle.    Then  on  again. 

Now  I  take  Chip's  hand,  and  when  she  feels  the  warmth 
of  mine,  she  clasps  it  with  both  of  hers  and  presses  it 
against  her  cold  breast  One  could  not  but  be  touched 
by  her  winning  w^ays  and  perfect  trust.  She  gets 
an  occasional  ride  on  the  cycle,  but  not  too  long,  because 
the  night  air  has  grown  so  chilly.  Will  the  forest  never 
end?    Again  and  again,  as  the  trees  broke  away,  we  said, 

this  must  be  the  Chitambo  clearing,"  only  to  find  it  was 
another  danibo  to  be  crossed.  A  few  shadows  appear  in 
front  and  prove  to  be  natives,  who  go  trooping  silently 
past.  Welcome  sight !  We  hail  them  with,  Chitambo 
pafupi?''  (Is  Chitambo  near?) 

paptpi"  (Yes,  near),  was  the  reply.    A  cheering 
assurance,  though  it  proved  a  somewhat  long  papipi. 

At  last  the  edge  of  the  wished-for  clearing  is  reached. 
We  stumble  down  through  a  rough  ploughed  field  with 
furrows  as  hard  as  iron,  cross  the  stream,  climb  the 
opposite  slope  between  the  fields  of  millet,  and  reach  the 
door  of  the  Mission-house.  Chip  had  done  the  thirty 
miles  in  three  minutes  under  twelve  hours,  all  stops 
included,  and  I  rather  think  her  record  will  stand — for 
girls  of  six.  The  first  of  the  carriers  came  in  an  hour 
later. 

Next  day  she  received  her  prize  of  a  new  dress,  con- 
sisting of  a  yard  of  calico.  Her  uncle  was  standing  b\', 
wondering  why  a  child  should  be  taken  notice  of. 

"  Tell  him,"  1  said  to  Irak,  "that  she  beat  all  the  carriers 
yesterday." 

He  grunted  something  in  reply. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  "  I  asked. 

"He  says,  'she  had  no  load  to  carry'."  The  old 
growler ! 

"Tell  him,"  I  said,  "to  be  sure  and  send  her  to  school 
and  teach  her  to  read,  for  if  once  she  begins  to  run 


140  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


the  Christian  race  she  will  never  stop  till  she  wins  the 
crown." 

Dear  wee  Chipandwe  in  your  far-off  African  forest,  as 
sweet  and  lovable  as  ever  child  could  be,  may  the  path 
be  easy  for  your  little  feet,  and,  ere  they  grow  too  weary, 
ma}'  it  lead  you  home. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  LADS  OF  THE  ULENDO. 

It  all  came  back  to  mind  the  night  we  slept  at  Katowawula. 
Our  march  of  the  previous  day  had  been  long  and  arduous 
as  we  struggled  up  out  of  the  swamps  around  Livingstone's 
grave.  We  reached  the  village  late  and  tired,  and  in 
mercy  to  the  weary  men  it  was  agreed  that  we  should  all 
sleep  in  the  school  together.  Soon  a  big  fire  was  blazing 
in  the  middle  of  the  mud  floor.  The  smoke  curled  slowly 
up  to  the  roof  and  found  its  way  out  through  the  thatch. 
It  hung  thick  overhead,  but  near  the  floor  where  we  sat  the 
air  was  comparatively  clear. 

My  camp-bed  was  spread  on  the  low,  mud  platform  at 
the  end  of  the  room,  and  lying  there  one  could  survey  the 
whole  scene.  Our  appearance,  it  must  be  confessed,  bore 
a  somewhat  close  resemblance  to  a  tinkers'  camp.  Round 
the  fire  were  the  ragged  and  half-naked  carriers,  eleven 
men  and  two  boys.  Their  wallets  of  food  were  flung 
carelessly  down,  and  pots  were  boiling  on  the  fire.  Black 
earthen  pitchers  of  water,  brought  by  the  village  women, 
stood  about  the  floor,  and  in  a  corner  some  spears  and 
staves  leaned  against  the  wall.  Yet,  rude  and  savage  as 
they  seemed,  not  one  of  these  men  had  looked  in  my 
direction  while  I  was  eating  supper,  nor  turned  his  head 
as  I  undressed.  Now  that  I  had  lain  down  they 
moved  about  noiselessly,  and  their  voices  never  rose  above 
a  murmur. 

Owing  perhaps  to  the  fatigue  of  the  day's  march,  I 
found  myself  unable  to  sleep,  and  lay  in  comfortable 
drowsiness  watching  the  men.    One  by  one  they  covered 

(141) 


142 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


their  heads  and  lay  down  by  the  fire,  and  their  breathing 
grew  deep  and  sweet.  By  all  the  rules  of  fiction  they 
should  have  snored  like  so  many  foghorns,  inasmuch  as 
they  were  only  niggers,  and  niggers  are  bound  by  natural 
necessity  to  do  everything  that  is  objectionable.  But  in 
reality  their  sleep  was  as  soft  as  an  infant's.  Now  and 
then  somebody  would  stir  and  push  a  half-burnt  log  into 
the  fire.  One  sat  up  and  lit  his  pipe,  a  clumsy  wooden 
implement  with  stem  as  thick  as  a  brush  handle.  Its 
fragrance  appeared  to  reach  the  sleepers,  for  from  among 
their  prostrate  forms  several  hands  were  silently  lifted  and 
the  pipe  went  round.  Each  man,  as  their  custom  is,  took 
half  a  dozen  stiff  pulls  and  then  handed  it  to  his 
neighbour.  It  was  good  to  be  awake  and  watch  so  rare 
and  novel  a  scene. 

For  the  most  part  I  lay  with  half-closed  eyes  while 
dreamy  pictures  of  the  road  went  trooping  by.  What 
glorious  times  we  had  had  with  the  boys  by  lake  and  river, 
through  forest  and  dambo,  over  the  mountains  and  down 
the  great  plateau  !  What  scenes  of  wild  romantic  beauty, 
what  comradeship  upon  the  road  !  What  friendly  greetings 
in  the  villages,  with  handclapping  and  uhilooing,  with 
salutations  and  good-byes  in  half  a  dozen  dialects  !  What 
troops  of  excited  boys  and  laughing  girls,  to  whom  the 
white  stranger  was  a  world's  wonder !  Mere  surface 
glimpses  of  native  life  at  its  brightest,  not  penetrating  to 
the  dark  underworld,  but  revealing  so  much  that  was 
human  and  lovable  and  big  with  possibility. 

Possibility  that  in  many  cases  has  become  reality. 
What  splendid  fellows  one  had  met — men  of  sound  sense 
and  Christian  character — men  it  was  a  pleasure  to  have 
known.  One  thought  of  Sam  Kauti  and  Philemon,  whose 
consistent  lives,  upon  his  own  confession,  had  convinced  a 
white  trader  of  the  truth  and  power  of  the  Gospel.  One 
thought  of  Daniel  Gondwe,  a  manly  presence,  and  of 
dreamy-eyed  Hezekiah  of  Ekwendeni,  inseparable  friends 
these  two,  linking  their  hands  together  as  they  walk,  like  a 
pair  of  young  lovers.  Then  of  Isaiah,  the  sweet  singer  of 
Karonga,  among  his  flower-decked  children,  of  faithful  John 


THE  LADS  OF  THE  ULENDO 


143 


Abanda,  now  gone  to  his  rest ;  of  shrewd  Peter  Sinkala,  of 
David  also,  tall  and  slim  and  very  gentle,  with  his  little  weak- 
ness for  immaculate  dress.  One  thought,  too,  of  Jonathan 
reading  his  Greek  Testament,  of  Edward  with  his  noble 
brow  and  deep  dark  eyes,  and  of  others,  down  to  little  Irak 
lying  there  among  the  carriers  by  the  fire,  far  from  his 
home  in  Kasungu,  a  foreign  missionary  and  an  exile,  for 
the  Gospel's  sake,  as  truly  as  St.  Paul. 

These  all  are  the  elect  of  their  people,  the  destined 
leaders  of  the  new  age,  the  visible  proofs  of  what  the 
African,  by  Christian  education,  may  become.  But, 
besides  these,  I  had  no  less  kindly  remembrance  of  others, 
the  ordinary  carriers  and  companions  of  the  way.  Some 
were  Christian  and  some  heathen,  but  all  were  willing  and 
cheery,  friendly  to  me  and  to  one  another.  Callous,  indeed, 
should  I  be  if  I  did  not  think  of  them  with  gratitude.  My 
good  Jumari  lies  there  by  the  fire,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the 
just,  and  well  he  may.  Eight  hundred  miles  he  has 
followed  me,  every  step  of  the  way  on  foot,  carrying  the 
lamp  which  I  have  never  once  seen  him  entrust  to  any 
of  the  men.  When  we  part  to-morrow  he  will  have 
600  miles  to  trudge  by  mountain  and  forest  to  his 
home  beside  the  lake.  I  shall  feel  that  I  have  lost  a 
friend,  for  though  we  could  converse  but  little,  what  he 
lacked  in  English  he  made  up  in  smiles.  I  think  of  the 
Tonga  boys,  of  big,  good-humoured  Farudi,  of  ragged 
Hanok,  who  set  the  pace,  of  Simon  and  Johanne,  the 
Apostles  of  the  box.  Then  comes  to  mind  Alick,  the 
cycle-boy,  a  straight  and  strapping  figure.  How  pleasant 
is  the  memory  of  him  as  he  came  like  a  gentleman  to  say 
good-bye  at  Mwenzo.  Standing  on  the  veranda  and  watch- 
ing him  as  he  strode  off,  I  was  saying  to  myself,  "What 
a  fine  fellow  you  are,  and  I  shall  never  see  you  again 
Suddenly  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  he  wheels  round,  flings 
up  his  hand  with  a  hearty  Paweme,  and  is  gone.  I  think 
of  Jonah,  the  Doctor's  incomparable  cook,  digging  his 
oven  in  the  ground  with  his  spear,  and  bringing  out  of  it 
the  most  delicious  bread  ;  Jonah,  the  universal  handy-man, 
who  can  produce  from  somewhere  everything  yoii  want, 


144 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


even  to  the  ball-bearings  of  a  cycle.  I  mount  in  imagina- 
tion and  cycle  once  again  down  the  line  of  carriers  with 
Kalulu,  best  beloved  and  ugliest  of  them  all,  sprinting  after 
his  Bwana  and  chaffing  every  carrier  as  we  pass.  Broad, 
good-humoured  Pyoka-pyoka  smiles  up  at  us.  A  gentle 
soul  is  he,  though  his  teeth  have  been  filed  to  a  sharp 
point  to  give  fierceness  to  his  look.  He  shakes  his  head  at 
the  idea  of  going  to  Scotland.  The  people  there  would 
probably  eat  him,  he  says.  Pawky  old  Kayira  hails  us 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  a  joke  he  has  no  English  to 
express.  Beside  him  Coffee  clumps  along  in  his  heavy 
football  boots.  Last  of  all  Nkufwela,  the  Capitao,  silent 
and  resourceful,  brings  up  the  rear,  and  comes  padding 
softly  into  camp  on  sandals  of  raw  hide. 

All  of  them  were  the  best  of  comrades,  and  it  was  the 
rarest  occurrence  to  hear  a  voice  raised  in  anger.  By  some 
mysterious  process  they  arranged  themselves  in  little 
groups,  each  of  which  ate  out  of  a  common  pot.  At  the 
division  of  the  porso  the  leaders  of  the  groups  would  come, 
and  in  answer  to  the  question,  "  How  many  eat  out  of  your 
pot  ?  "  would  carry  away  the  appropriate  number  of  portions. 
One  has  seen  a  whole  eland  or  hartebeeste,  as  big  as  an  ox, 
handed  over  and  divided  among  the  men  without  dispute. 

Only  one  quarrel  occurred  in  the  whole  journey,  and  it 
was  but  a  passing  breeze.  It  was  the  morning  we  left 
Kafwimbe's,  and  the  subject  of  it  was  Coffee's  Bible.  A 
carrier  found  the  book  laid  on  the  top  of  his  basket.  Never 
having  seen  it  there  before,  he  put  it  on  the  ground,  for  no 
carrier,  be  his  load  light  or  heavy,  will  tolerate  the  slightest 
addition  to  it  if  he  can  prevent  it.  The  book  apparently, 
by  some  strange  arrangement,  had  been  at  the  bottom  of 
the  basket  before,  but  on  the  morning  in  question.  Coffee 
perhaps  having  tarried  long  at  his  devotions,  it  was  laid  on 
the  top.  Coffee  insisted,  the  carrier  was  obdurate.  He 
raised  his  basket  on  to  his  head,  whereupon  Coffee  threw  in 
the  Bible.  Down  came  the  basket,  and  out  the  offending 
volume  went  flying  as  far  as  an  angry  man  could  pitch  it. 
Coffee  sprang  at  him,  but  Kalulu  slipped  in  between,  and 
the  storm  blew  over  as  quickly  as  it  had  risen.    At  the  end 


THE  LADS  OF  THE  ULENDO 


145 


of  the  day  the  carrier  came  to  the  Doctor  with  his  apology. 
He  did  not  know  it  was  a  Bible,  else  he  would  not  have 
handled  it  as  he  did.  Poor  fellow,  there  was  doubtless 
more  of  superstitious  dread  prompting  his  apology  than 
of  true  contrition.  But  such  was  the  only  case  of  friction 
in  all  these  weeks,  when  men  of  different  tribes  were  daily 
mingling  with  one  another  on  the  road  and  passing  through 
scores  of  strange  villages. 

And  these  same  boys  go  down  to  the  mines  and  become 
so  much  native  labour.  They  mix  in  the  Babel  of  the 
compound,  their  history  and  character  are  unknown,  their 
individuality  is  lost.  All  that  is  taken  account  of  is  so 
much  black  skin  sheathing  so  much  valuable  muscle. 
Some  would  even  deny  the  very  existence  of  their  man- 
hood, and  speak  of  them  as  brutes.  Yet,  how  intensely 
human  they  are,  and  how  lovable,  both  for  their  manly 
virtues  and  not  less  for  their  childish  simplicity. 

The  night  is  wearing  on.  One  of  the  men  by  the  fire 
rises  up,  and,  stepping  softly  over  the  prostrate  bodies  of 
his  companions,  takes  a  drink  of  water.  I  stretch  my  hand 
towards  him,  saying,  Minzi.  He  lifts  a  black  earthen  pot 
of  water  and  brings  it  to  my  bedside.  I  take  a  long, 
grateful  drink,  and  in  a  few  minutes  fall  fast  asleep. 


10 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE  LAST  CAMP. 

It  is  200  miles  and  odds  from  Chitambo  to  the  railway 
at  Broken  Hill,  and  the  traveller  to  the  station  must  allow 
himself  a  fortnight  to  catch  the  train.  At  Chitambo 
Jumari  had  reached  the  limit  of  his  wanderings,  the  carriers 
from  the  north  had  turned  back  and  substitutes  had  to  be 
found.  In  the  morning  they  lined  up  in  front  of  the 
Mission-house,  under  the  charge  of  a  native  teacher  who 
had  recruited  them. 

"Can  any  of  these  men  cook?"  was  the  first  anxious 
question. 

A  lad  stepped  forward.  "What  does  he  say?"  asked 
the  Deputy. 

*'  He  says  '  I  can  try'." 

"Very  well,  tell  him  the  situation  is  his." 

Only  one  sample  of  Chisulu's  cooking  abides  in  memory. 
The  lady  of  the  Mission-house,  with  anxious  forethought, 
had  provided  a  savoury  pot  of  Irish  stew.  Next  day 
Chisulu  came  with  a  look  of  dismay,  the  pot  in  one  hand 
and  the  lid  in  the  other.  A  glance  showed  the  pot  swarm- 
ing with  tiny  ants,  inextricably  mixed  with  the  stew. 
There  was  only  one  remedy  for  it. 

"Boil  them,"  said  the  Deputy,  making  a  significant 
gesture  towards  the  fire,  whereupon  Chisulu  returned  to  his 
cooking,  pleased  to  have  found  a  man  with  sense  enough 
to  relish  ants. 

About  seventy  miles  out  we  joined  MacAlpine  of  Bandaw6 
who  had  crossed  the  Luangwa,  and  had  been  occupied  with 
Moffat  and  the  Doctor  in  prospecting  for  a  new  Mission- 
station  among  the  Walala.    Some  months  before  at  Bandaw6 

(146) 


THE  LAST  CAMP 


147 


we  had  planned  to  go  down  through  Rhodesia  together  on 
our  way  home  and  visit  the  boys  on  the  mines. 

It  was  my  friend's  last  home-coming  after  years  of  fruit- 
ful service,  and  his  heart  was  sore  at  every  step  that  took 
him  farther  from  his  beloved  lake.  He  was  nursing  poig- 
nant memories  of  bitter-sweet  farewells.  On  his  departure 
the  people  followed  him  for  miles.  Most  of  them  were  his 
own  spiritual  children,  whom  he  had  loved  and  taught, 
baptised  and  married,  rebuked,  counselled  and  comforted. 
They  crowded  round  his  inachila,  invoking  blessings  upon 
him  and  uttering  prayers  for  his  safe  home-coming.  When 
at  length  they  had  all  turned  back,  a  solitary  figure  stepped 
out  of  the  bush.  It  was  Sam  Kauti,  who  had  resolved  that 
his  should  be  the  last  hand-clasp  and  word  of  farewell. 

My  heart  is  broken,"  he  said,  and  the  two  men,  black 
and  white,  mingled  their  tears  even  as  did  David  and 
Jonathan  of  old. 

MacAlpine  had  brought  with  him  Brapo,  his  cook,  to 
whom  Chisulu  was  now  attached  as  kitchen-boy.  Nobody 
ever  was  like  Brapo  if  MacAlpine  was  to  be  credited.  He 
would  begin  cunningly  by  calling  attention  to  his  ugliness, 
but  only  as  a  foil  to  his  more  excellent  qualities  of  head 
and  heart,  as  if  to  say,  "  Behold,  how  rare  a  jewel  in  how 
rough  a  setting".  As  Brapo  had  been  in  his  service  for 
twenty  years  it  was  not  easy  to  gainsay  this  testimony,  and 
Brapo  was  in  truth  a  jewel.  The  only  retort  that  one  could 
make  was  to  suggest  that  Brapo  was  not  so  ugly  as  he 
was  made  out  to  be. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  my  friend,  dubiously,  not  sure 
whether  to  be  pleased  or  disappointed,  for  he  evidently 
thought  Brapo's  ugliness,  like  every  other  quality  about 
him,  incomparable. 

From  Chitambo  the  great  plateau  bends  westwards  and 
crosses  the  railway  at  Kashitu.  Our  route  being  towards 
the  south-west,  led  us  gradually  to  the  Zambesian  side  of 
the  watershed,  and  from  time  to  time  we  crossed  lovely 
mountain  streams  gushing  down  to  swell  that  king  of  rivers. 
Some  of  them,  like  the  Mulungushi,  echoed  the  music  of 
their  waters  in  their  names.    Ever  and  anon  we  met  in  the 


148 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


path  boys  returning  from  the  mines  and  carriers  who  had 
been  to  Broken  Hill  for  loads.  The  returning  mine-boy 
was  easily  distinguishable  from  the  fact  that  he  was  carry- 
ing off  to  his  forest  home  the  rich  spoils  of  civilisation — a 
hat  perhaps,  or  a  pair  of  yellow  boots,  sometimes  even  a 
bicycle,  but  most  frequently  a  gaily-painted  tin  box  in  which 
his  treasures  were  stored. 

Fond  memory  lingers  over  some  of  the  scenes  of  the  way. 
MacAlpine  admonishing  the  carriers  made  an  unforgettable 
picture.  Some  of  the  new  boys,  thinking  they  would  make 
their  own  pace,  dawdled  on  the  road,  lit  a  fire,  and  cooked 
a  second  breakfast  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon.  They 
reached  the  mid-day  resting  place  at  2  P.M.,  and  of  course 
delayed  the  whole  ulendo.  Brapo  was  ordered  to  call  the 
boys,  and  they  obediently  lined  up,  elbowing  each  other 
uneasily.  MacAlpine,  as  president  of  the  court,  sat  on  the 
top  of  the  food-box,  his  face  shaded  by  the  broad  brim  of  a 
sun  helmet,  his  eyes  hidden  behind  dark  preserves,  a  most 
mysterious  and  awe-inspiring  figure  to  a  native  eye.  The 
Deputy,  as  assessor,  was  perched  on  a  tin  trunk.  The 
proceedings  opened  with  a  torrent  of  the  most  eloquent 
Chitonga,  in  which  the  sins  of  the  offenders  were  exposed 
in  all  their  enormity.  The  culprits  pled  guilty  by  their 
silence,  and  were  dismissed  with  an  admonition.  After 
that  they  gave  no  further  trouble  on  the  road. 

The  scene  had  its  element  of  absurdity  if  one  chose  to 
regard  it  so.  Here  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  miles  from 
everywhere,  were  two  white  men,  and  arrayed  over  against 
them  thirty  or  forty  blacks,  powerful  and  numerous  enough 
to  have  made  a  meal  of  them.  Yet  they  are  rebuked  as 
fearlessly,  and  submit  to  rebuke  as  meekly,  as  well-trained 
schoolboys.  Because  these  two  unarmed  men  sitting  there 
have  invisible  forces  on  their  side — the  prestige  of  the  white 
man  and  the  whole  power  of  the  Empire. 

Another  scene  comes  to  mind  of  Kambalani,  the  cycle- 
boy,  emerging  from  a  da^nbo,  all  unconscious  of  disaster, 
with  the  cycle  on  his  shoulder  and  the  broken  chain  wound 
round  his  neck.  He  was  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the 
company  by  the  fact  that  he  owned  a  vest,  and  now  he 


THE  LAST  CAMP 


149 


looked  as  visibly  self-satisfied  as  an  alderman  newly 
adorned  with  his  chain  of  office.  His  glory,  however,  was 
short-lived,  for  that  very  night  in  camp  he  rolled  in  his  sleep 
into  the  embers  of  the  fire  and  woke  to  find  that  his  vest 
had  smouldered  off  his  back. 

Yet  another  scene.  We  are  entering  a  dambo  at  dusk 
when  Kambalani,  who  is  in  front,  whispers  eagerly,  njiri" 
(bush  pig).  MacAlpine  seizes  his  rifle  and  creeps  towards 
two  dark  objects  moving  in  the  grass.  The  supposed  pigs 
disappear  behind  an  ant-hill,  and  by  the  time  Mack  gets 
there  they  are  gone.  On  his  return  the  two  boys,  who 
meantime  have  been  whispering  excitedly,  inform  him  that 
they  think  the  brutes  were  lions.  And  lions  sure  enough 
they  proved  to  be  when  their  spoor  was  examined.  Never 
shall  \  forget  the  eager,  crouching  figure  of  MacAlpine 
hurrying  to  get  a  pot  shot  at  these  two  lions,  with  visions 
of  roast  pork  before  his  eyes.  Had  he  fired  and  wounded 
them,  who  knows  which  of  us  would  have  been  left  to  tell 
the  tale.  That  night  in  our  forest  camp,  when  all  had  been 
made  secure  with  an  unusually  high  and  strong  stockade, 
Kambalani  led  our  evening  prayer  and  gave  simple  thanks 
for  safe  keeping  through  the  day.  We  responded  with 
heartfelt  Amens  and  laid  us  down  to  sleep. 

Most  sacred  of  all  is  the  last  camp.  Memorable  for 
Brapo's  prayer,  who,  mentioning  the  Deputy  by  name, 
asked  that  he  might  be  brought  safe  home  to  his  own 
country,  and  given  strength  "  to  tell  his  people  of  the  needs 
of  this  dark  land  ".  Months  after,  the  Deputy  was  called 
to  address  the  most  important  missionary  meeting  in 
Scotland.  At  the  door  of  the  Assembly  Hall  who  should 
he  meet  but  MacAlpine. 

"  You  are  speaking  to-night  ? " 
Yes,  and  I  wish  it  were  well  over." 
It  is  all  right.    You  remember  Brapo's  prayer."  And 
not  once  but  often  has  that  simple  prayer  been  a  spring  of 
strength. 

Memorable  also  was  that  last  camp  for  the  singing. 
There  were  hymn=books  among  us  in  five  dialects,  and  all 
of  them  contained  the  grand  old  hymn — 


1 50  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Let  us  with  a  gladsome  mind 
Praise  the  Lord  for  He  is  kind. 

We  made  it  our  concluding  psalm  of  thanksgiving  for  all 
the  mercies  of  the  way.  Five  times  over  each  verse  was 
sung,  each  time  in  a  different  dialect,  while  the  whole 
company  woke  the  forest  echoes  with  a  united  chorus. 
More  than  a  score  of  times  did  that  chorus  ring  out,  and 
we  all  seemed  to  have  unwearied  pleasure  in  singing  it. 
The  words  remain  indelibly  imprinted  on  the  mind.  Ever 
since  then,  when  the  tune  is  sung  at  home,  my  heart  flies 
to  the  far  forest.  I  join  the  invisible  choir  of  my  black 
brothers,  and  sing  softly  to  myself,  as  we  sang  in  the  last 
camp,  the  uncouth  yet  melodious  words — 

Wezi  wake  wakwanja 
Ukajanga  muyaya. 

And  so  will  I  take  leave  to  sing  it  as  long  as  the  memory 
of  that  sacred  night  endures. 

In  a  few  hours  more  we  were  aboard  the  train,  and  the 
boys  had  turned  back  home.  Brapo  stood  watching  till 
the  train  took  us  from  his  sight,  then  he  set  out  on  his  long 
journey  to  the  lake.  He  had  been  offered  wages  if  he 
would  return  by  another  route  in  the  service  of  a  white 
man,  but  he  refused. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  go  back  by  the  way  we  came, 
and  I  shall  sleep  at  all  the  camps  where  my  dear  master 
slept." 

With  that  the  affectionate  and  faithful  fellow  set  his  face 
to  the  forest,  and  made  his  homeward  journey  a  pilgrimage 
of  fond  and  sacred  memories. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


IN  THE  FAR  COUNTRY. 

We  travelled  down  from  Broken  Hill  to  Livingstone  in  the 
van  of  a  goods'  train,  nothing  else  being  available  that  day. 
The  journey  occupied  twenty-four  hours,  and  proved  one 
of  the  roughest  and  most  exhausting  experiences  we  had 
had.  On  stepping  out  of  the  train  at  Livingstone  station 
we  had  the  unexpected  pleasure  of  seeing  General  Botha. 
He  had  been  on  a  visit  to  the  Victoria  Falls,  and  was  now 
going  north  to  the  hinterland  of  the  Belgian  Congo. 
Surprise  was  being  expressed  at  this  most  unusual 
extension  of  a  pleasure  trip,  but  in  the  light  of  subsequent 
events — it  was  now  within  a  fortnight  of  the  outbreak  of 
the  war — one  suspects  there  was  more  on  hand  than  mere 
sightseeing. 

Livingstone  is  a  town  of  handsome  bungalows  and  fine 
hotels.  Being  the  governing  centre  of  Northern  Rhodesia, 
its  activities  are  governmental  rather  than  commercial  and 
industrial.  The  population  consists  of  a  few  hundred 
whites,  with  a  large  colony  of  natives.  Educated  boys 
from  Blantyre  and  Livingstonia  find  their  way  thither,  and 
are  employed  as  interpreters,  clerks,  and  typists.  Our 
purpose  was  to  visit  these  boys  and  bring  them  a  message 
from  home,  especially  to  seek  out  some  who  in  the  far 
country  had  gone  astray.  With  this  in  view  we  had 
travelled  down  by  the  goods'  train,  so  that  MacAlpine 
might  have  at  least  one  night  with  them  before  he  hurried 
on  to  Bulawayo,  where  he  had  trysted  to  spend  the  week- 
end among  the  boys.  Our  train  was  late,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  nothing  could  be  done  that  night,  but  my  friend  was  not 
to  be  daunted.     Never  was  shepherd  more  zealous  in 

(151) 


152 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


seeking  his  sheep.  The  special  objects  of  his  soh'citude 
were  Lamek  and  Mary,  a  guilty  pair  who  had  fled  from 
Bandaw6  and  were  known  to  be  in  Livingstone. 

For  a  time  our  search  seemed  vain,  but  at  length  we 
found  some  natives  by  a  fire,  one  of  whom  knew  Lamek 
and  agreed  to  guide  us  to  his  house.  As  we  groped  our 
way  after  him,  by  a  path  leading  past  some  bungalows,  we 
were  suddenly  confronted  by  an  expanse  of  white,  the  un- 
mistakable figure  of  a  man  in  evening  dress.  Our  guide 
leaped  aside  nimbly,  and  MacAlpine,  who  followed,  not 
being  equally  adroit,  received  a  rude  thrust  that  sent  him 
staggering  off  the  path. 

"Who  are  you?  "  demanded  a  grufif  voice  whose  owner 
was  haughtily  indignant  that  natives  should  block  his  way. 
It  made  one's  blood  boil.  My  friend,  however,  with 
extraordinary  restraint,  commenced  to  render  the  soft 
answer  which  turneth  away  wrath,  but,  before  he  had 
finished  a  sentence,  the  swaggerer,  finding  he  had  met  a 
white  man,  pushed  past  us  and  made  off  without  a  word 
or  sign  of  apology.  Such  was  our  welcome  back  to 
civilisation. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were  seated  in  Lamek's  hut.  It 
was  a  dramatic  meeting.  Had  some  wandering  Scotsman 
in  the  backwoods  of  America  seen  the  door  of  his  shack 
open  suddenly  and  reveal  the  face  of  the  old  minister  from 
his  native  glen,  the  surprise  could  not  have  been  greater. 
Lamek  and  Mary  sat  on  the  floor  with  averted  faces,  while 
earnest,  pleading  words  in  their  own  Chitonga  brought  back 
thoughts  of  home  and  God.  Lamek  was  visibly  affected, 
and  at  last  laid  his  head  prone  on  the  ground  with  long, 
shivering  sobs.  After  a  time  he  raised  himself  and  said, 
"  I  will  give  Mary  up 
And  you,  Mary?" 

Hardly  above  a  whisper  came  the  reply,  "  I  will  give 
him  up". 

"  To-night  or  never,"  said  their  counsellor,  and  Mary, 
without  another  word,  lifted  the  lamp  and  passed  out  of 
her  home  of  sin. 

"  It  is  more  than  can  be  expected  of  human  nature,"  I 


IN  THE  FAR  COUNTRY 


153 


said,  when  we  had  returned  to  our  hotel.  "What  can  he 
do  with  the  woman  on  his  hands,  so  far  from  home  ? " 

But  next  morning  Lamek  met  us  with  the  light  of  a 
great  renunciation  on  his  face.  Yes,  Mary  had  left  him 
and  spent  the  night  with  friends  in  a  neighbouring  hut. 
He  hoped  soon  to  arrange  to  send  her  home  to  the  lake. 

At  Livingstone  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  some 
notable  people. 

Few  names  in  African  missionary  history  are  more 
worthy  of  honour  than  that  of  Cavalieri  Louis  Jalla,  the 
n^t  colleague  of  Coillard  of  the  Zambesi.  He  has  grown 
grey  in  the  service  of  the  native,  and  his  record  of  work  is 
second  only  to  that  of  the  great  Apostle  of  the  Barotse. 
At  the  time  of  our  visit  he  was  in  charge  of  the  French 
Mission  at  Livingstone,  though  under  orders  to  move  up 
the  river  to  Seshek^,  the  royal  city  of  the  Barotse.  Besides 
his  own  Barotse  congregation  and  native  hospital,  he  had  a 
little  church  in  the  location,  where  on  Sunday  a  succession 
of  services  are  held  for  groups  of  various  tribes,  and  among 
them  for  the  Nyasaland  boys.  While  MacAlpine  went  on 
to  Bulawayo  it  was  arranged  that  1  should  spend  the  week- 
end in  Livingstone,  and  meet  these  boys. 

On  Sunday  morning,  M.  Jalla  drove  me  in  his  mule 
buggy  to  the  location,  where  we  arrived  at  nine  o'clock  to 
find  a  congregation  dispersing,  and  the  Nyasaland  boys 
waiting  to  enter  the  church.  As  another  service  was  to 
follow  at  ten  o'clock  we  were  limited  to  an  hour.  A 
memorable  hour  it  proved  to  be.  There  were  forty  or 
fifty  of  the  boys  present.  Lamek  was  there,  and  Mary, 
with  a  few  other  women.  All  understood  English  more  or 
less,  and  the  hymns  were  from  Sankey's  book,  chosen  by 
the  boys  themselves.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  aptly 
chosen  than  the  opening  hymn — 

Come  every  soul  by  sin  oppressed, 
There's  mercy  with  the  Lord. 

The  tears  stood  in  Lamek 's  eyes  and  overflowed  at  the 
first  notes  of  the  hymn.  To  such  an  audience,  and  in  such 
circumstances,  one   could   not  but  speak  with  unusual 


154 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


feeling.  The  big,  hungry  eyes  of  Lamek,  and  his  face 
quivering  with  emotion,  were  almost  more  than  one  dared 
to  look  upon.  At  the  close  of  the  service  we  stood  around 
the  church  door,  now  filled  with  another  group  of  wor- 
shippers. I  took  their  names,  and  gave  them  what  news 
I  could  of  their  homes  in  Nyasaland.  I  had  been  bidden 
inquire  for  Mateyu  Zayamba,  another  of  the  flock  who  had 
gone  astray,  and  sure  enough  he  was  there.  When  all  the 
others  had  left,  he  and  Lamek  remained.  He  did  not  deny 
nor  excuse  his  sin.  Would  he  not  think  of  repentance 
after  what  had  been  said  that  day  ?  He  looked  at  me  in 
a  straight  and  manly  way,  and,  with  the  simplicity  so 
characteristic  of  the  African,  he  said,  "  Your  words  are  in 
my  heart  now".  Both  he  and  Lamek  desired  me  to  tell 
their  story  to  M.  Jalla,  as  it  was  their  wish  to  be  restored 
to  the  fellowship  of  the  Christian  Church. 

In  the  afternoon  I  addressed  the  Barotse  congregation, 
M.  Jalla  acting  as  interpreter.  There  was  present  that  day 
a  notable  visitor  in  the  person  of  Litia,  the  son  and  heir  of 
King  Lewanika,  and  now,  since  his  father's  death,  the  first 
Christian  king  of  Barotseland.  Being  on  his  way  to  Cape 
Town,  he  spent  the  Sunday  at  Livingstone,  and  like  a 
good  Christian  he  attended  the  service.  In  appearance  he 
is  a  big,  rather  stout-built  man  of  quiet  manner,  with  short, 
pointed  beard  turning  grey,  and  a  face  decidedly  resembling 
his  father.  He  was  tastefully  dressed  in  a  light  tweed  suit, 
and  wore  a  magnificent  diamond  ring  and  a  gold  wristlet 
watch.  He  conversed  familiarly  with  the  local  chief  and 
his  wife,  and  chucked  their  baby  under  the  chin,  in  the 
most  paternal  way.  During  the  service  he  was  accommo- 
dated with  a  seat  on  the  platform,  and  appeared  to  join  in 
the  worship  with  devoutness. 

A  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing,  as  I  had  occasion 
to  remember  that  day.  Being  aware  that  M.  Jalla  was 
rendering  my  remarks  into  Sekololo,  that  is  the  speech  of 
the  Makololo,  I  took  occasion  to  recall  the  fact  that  David 
Livingstone  found  in  this  region  his  faithful  Makololo,  and 
I  went  on  to  assure  my  audience  that  no  African  name  was 
dearer  to  us  in  the  homeland.    The  interpreter  showed 


IN  THE  FAR  COUNTRY  155 


signs  of  uneasiness,  and  it  is  doubtful  how  much  of  all  this 
reached  the  audience. 

"It  is  quite  true,"  explained  M.  Jalla  at  the  close  of 
the  service,  ''that  the  Makololo  ruled  this  country  in 
Livingstone's  day,  and  imposed  their  language  on  the 
people.  But  they  are  the  hereditary  enemies  of  the 
Barotse,  and  Litia's  grandfather  drove  them  out." 

So  the  little  bubble  was  pricked,  and  it  was  my  turn  to 
feel  small.  I  had  been,  as  it  were,  commending  myself  to 
a  Belgian  audience  by  praise  of  the  Prussian  name. 

All  this  memorable  Sunday,  while  these  hopeful  activities 
were  going  on  among  the  natives,  there  was  no  religious 
service  of  any  kind  for  the  white  population  in  Livingstone. 
As  far  as  outward  appearances  went  they  were  the  most 
conspicuous  heathen.  Not  only  so,  but  complaint  was 
made  that  Christian  natives  were  prevented  from  attending 
church  because  they  had  to  carry  their  master's  clubs  on 
the  golf-course.  O  strange  irony,  that  in  the  town  called 
by  Livingstone's  name,  the  African  for  whose  salvation 
Livingstone  died  should  be  hindered  in  his  worship  of  God 
by  the  irreligion  of  Livingstone's  people  !  What  is  the 
value  of  a  faith  that  can  be  so  utterly  forsaken  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  where  is  the  spirit  of  the  Home  Church,  to  suffer 
her  far-off  sons  to  be  thus  neglected  ? 

M.  Jalla  spoke  from  long  experience,  and  with  full 
knowledge  of  the  white  man's  attitude  to  the  native. 

"  Cruel,"  he  said  emphatically.  Not  all,  some  are  just 
and  kind,  but  many  are — "  he  paused  for  an  expression — 
**ze  brute." 

He  told  with  indignation  of  the  bands  of  troopers  in  the 
early  days,  who,  by  their  studied  insolence,  seemed  bent  on 
goading  the  Barotse  into  war,  even  as  the  Matabele  were 
goaded  ;  he  spoke  also  of  subtle  agreements  by  which  King 
Lewanika  had  been  made  to  barter  his  kingly  rights  in 
ignorance,  and  afterwards  held  to  a  bargain  he  had  never 
made.  All  which  went  to  confirm  the  reports  one  had 
heard  from  Cape  Town  and  onwards,  indicating  that  the 
history  of  Rhodesia  has  yet  to  be  written.  A  stupendous 
feat  of  Empire  Building  it  undoubtedly  was,  and  rough 


156 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


work  has  often  to  be  done  when  foundations  are  being 
laid,  but  the  future  of  the  Empire  in  Africa  would  be 
brighter  if  the  past  had  been  more  humane. 

On  leaving  Livingstone,  about  a  score  of  the  Nyasaland 
boys  came  down  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  to  see  me  off. 
Mary  also  came.  Lamek  pointed  her  out  as  she  stood  a 
little  distance  off,  and  whispered  that  she  was  leaving  soon 
for  Bandawe  in  the  company  of  some  friends  who  were 
returning.  When  we  had  all  shaken  hands  Mary  came 
timidly  forward  to  say  good-bye.  A  silent,  pathetic  figure 
she  looked  in  the  twilight,  and  as  I  wrung  her  hand  I  could 
not  but  pray  that,  like  that  other  Mary,  she  might  find 
mercy  in  God's  great  day. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THE  VICTORIA  FALLS. 

The  Victoria  Falls  of  the  Zambesi  are  seven  miles  down 
the  river  from  Livingstone.  On  nearing  the  town  by  train 
we  had  seen  to  the  south,  across  a  flat  and  sparsely-wooded 
country,  the  lofty  pillars  of  smoke  rising  solemnly  into  the 
still  evening  air.  The  thunder  of  the  falls  was,  of  course, 
at  that  distance  inaudible,  but  the  appropriateness  of  the 
native  name,  Mosi-oa-tunya  (the  smoke  that  sounds),  was 
immediately  apparent.  The  cloud  exactly  resembles  the 
smoke  of  a  great  bush  fire,  and  is  the  most  characteristic 
feature  of  the  place. 

Next  morning  we  walked  the  seven  miles  down  the  rail- 
way track  to  the  Falls.  The  smoke  pillars  rose  in  front  of 
us,  and  presently  we  could  detect  the  deep  and  awesome 
sound  of  the  falling  water.  Leaving  the  railway  we  followed 
a  footpath  that  led  to  the  river  bank.  The  broad  bosom 
of  the  Zambesi  was  sprinkled  with  wooded  islands,  among 
which  the  blue  water  floated  peacefully  and  all  unconscious 
of  its  impending  fate.  The  path  passed  behind  a  clump  of 
trees  and  then  suddenly  brought  us  to  the  brink  of  the 
chasm. 

A  single  glance  into  the  abyss  cut  my  breath  with  the 
sheer  awe  of  the  sight.  "God  Almighty!"  I  breathed  in 
amazement  to  myself.  It  seemed  the  only  adequate  ex- 
pression to  one's  feelings  at  the  moment,  and  even  now  there 
seems  nothing  more  to  be  said  than  just  that,  "  Almighty 
God,  what  hast  Thou  wrought?"  Imagine,  if  you  can, 
a  mile-long  chasm,  less  than  lOO  yards  wide  and  400  feet 
deep,  with  a  mile-wide  river  pouring  over  the  whole  of  one 
side  in  cataract  beyond  cataract,  the  tortured  and  imprisoned 

(157) 


158 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


water  boiling  and  raging  at  the  bottom  of  the  chasm,  dash- 
ing itself  to  pieces  against  the  opposing  rock,  filling  the 
whole  air  with  the  sweat  and  steam  of  its  agony,  and  finally 
bursting  out  through  a  mere  crack  in  the  rock  of  lOO  feet 
in  width. 

I  was  roused  by  my  friend  making  the  fatuous  remark, 
"Isn't  it  awfully  pretty?"  These  were  his  very  words. 
"  Look  at  that  spray,"  he  continued,  "and  the  colouring  on 
that  rock.  Man,  you  don't  enjoy  it  half  so  much  unless  you 
have  somebody  with  you."  But  presently  he  fell  silent,  and 
then  his  inspiration  came.  In  a  hushed  and  quiet  voice  he 
said,  "  The  Lord  sitteth  King  at  the  Flood".  It  was  fitly 
spoken,  for  in  truth  the  Lord  sitteth  King  at  that  flood. 

It  is  very  difficult,  without  a  diagram,  to  give  a  clear  idea 
of  the  extraordinary  configuration  of  the  Falls.  The  sur- 
rounding country  is  flat,  or  rather  saucer-shaped,  with  no 
features  of  ruggedness  or  grandeur.  The  Zambesi,  flowing 
placidly  through  this  plain,  suddenly  drops  400  feet  sheer 
down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  then  zigzags  wildly 
through  a  narrow  gorge  like  a  subterranean  snake.  This 
amazing  fissure  is  exactly  as  if  a  flash  of  forked  lightning 
had  fallen  full  length  on  the  plain  and  split  the  rock  to  a 
depth  of  400  feet,  after  the  pattern  of  its  own  jagged  and 
angular  form.  Or,  to  use  another  image,  one  might  imagine 
some  giant  plunging  a  knife  in  and  slicing  clean  across  the 
mile-wide  channel  of  the  river,  then  turning  the  knife  at 
right  angles  to  the  original  cut  and  slashing  the  rock  in  a 
fierce  zigzag  to  let  the  sunken  river  out. 

The  shape  of  the  gorge  might  perhaps  be  roughly  indi- 
cated in  the  following  way.  Write  together  the  letters 
FIV.  Erase  the  top  of  the  F  and  join  the  IV  to  the  end  of 
the  middle  cross-bar.  Then,  if  the  general  flow  of  the  river 
above  the  falls  be  from  left  to  right  along  the  line  of  type, 
the  upright  line  of  the  F  would  represent  the  mile-long 
chasm  into  which  the  river  drops,  the  cross-bar  of  the  F 
would  represent  the  narrow  outlet  by  which  the  river 
escapes,  and  the  sharp  zigzags  of  the  IV  the  shape  of  the 
deep  gorge  down  which  it  rushes.  This  is  no  exaggeration 
of  the  angular  course  of  the  river  below  the  falls,  for  the 


THE  VICTORIA  FALLS 


159 


cliffs  at  the  bends  are  sharp  as  the  edge  of  a  chisel,  and  the 
river  literally  doubles  back  on  itself  again  and  again.  The 
railway  crosses  the  gorge  just  below  the  bend  where  the  F 
and  W  join.  The  Falls  Hotel  stands  overlooking  the  first 
angle  of  the  W,  so  that  from  the  veranda  one  gets  a  magni- 
ficent double  view  of  the  gorge,  up  the  one  arm  to  the  bridge 
and  down  the  other,  with  the  great  chisel-edged  cliff  be- 
tween. 

To  visit  the  different  view-points  in  and  around  the  Falls 
is  a  matter  of  days  ;  to  attempt  a  description  of  them  requires 
some  hardihood.  Almost  every  feature  of  the  scene  has  a 
certain  incomparable  quality,  a  uniqueness  of  majesty  that 
baffles  language. 

The  river  itself  above  the  Falls  is  a  noble  sight.  "  No 
one,"  says  Livingstone,  "  can  imagine  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  from  anything  witnessed  in  England."  The  banks 
are  fringed  with  gigantic  reeds  and  grasses  whose  white 
feathery  tops  stand  out  with  exquisite  clearness  and  beauty 
against  the  deep  blue  water.  The  river  gently  glides  among 
scores  of  wooded  islands,  floating  over  placid  stretches, 
sleeping  in  sunny  pools,  rippling  round  the  rocks,  till  in  an 
instant  it  drops  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice  and  is  dashed 
to  atoms  in  the  abyss  below.  The  catastrophe  comes  with 
utter  suddenness.  Near  the  western  bank,  where  the  edge 
of  the  precipice  is  broken  away,  there  is  a  fierce  downward 
rush  before  the  leap,  but  elsewhere,  so  level  is  the  top  of  the 
rock  and  so  sharp  its  edge,  that  the  river,  peaceful  to  the 
last,  is  as  suddenly  engulfed  as  if  the  earth  had  opened  her 
mouth  and  swallowed  it  up. 

The  edge  of  the  Falls,  which  is  about  a  mile  and  a  furlong 
in  length,  is  divided  in  the  middle  by  Livingstone  Island, 
from  which  the  great  explorer  got  his  first  view  of  the 
chasm.  On  either  side  of  this  island  the  river  is  again 
broken  into  two  by  smaller  islands,  thus  making  four 
distinct  Falls.  Between  Livingstone  Island  and  the  left 
bank  are  the  Rainbow  and  the  East  Falls,  between  the 
island  and  the  right  bank  are  the  Main  Fall  and  the  Devil's 
Cataract. 

Livingstone  compares  the  snow-white  sheet  of  falling 


i6o  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 

water  to  "  myriads  of  -  small  comets  rushing  on  in  one 
direction,  each  of  which  left  behind  its  nucleus  rays  of 
foam  ".  This  very  accurately  describes  the  appearance. 
The  water  does  not  fall  in  a  solid  mass,  but  in  an  endless 
succession  of  fiery  leaps.  Snow-white  jets  of  water  rush 
downward,  each  leaving  for  an  instant  a  track  of  fleecy  foam. 
In  watching  these  one  gets  an  impression  of  airy  lightness, 
and  yet  they  are,  in  reality,  ponderous  masses  of  solid 
water.  A  stone  dropped  from  the  railway  bridge  struck 
the  water  in  seven  seconds,  and  in  exactly  the  same  number 
of  seconds,  as  nearly  as  one  could  compute,  these  apparently 
fleecy  comets  of  foam  made  their  descent. 

The  chasm  into  which  the  river  drops  is  simply  a  gigantic 
fissure  in  the  rock,  a  crack  running  clean  across  the  river 
bed  from  bank  to  bank,  and,  though  over  a  mile  long,  less 
than  100  yards  in  width.  Facing  the  falls,  therefore,  there 
is  a  twin  precipice,  unbroken  from  end  to  end  save  at  one 
point,  opposite  the  middle  of  the  Rainbow  Fall,  where  it  is 
cut  through  to  let  the  river  out.  This  Iron  Gate,  as  it  may 
well  be  called,  is  only  lOO  feet  wide,  and  through  it  the 
whole  volume  of  the  water,  flowing  in  from  both  ends  of  the 
chasm,  rushes  with  inconceivable  fury — a  mile-wide  river 
compressed  into  a  mere  bottle  neck  of  lOO  feet. 

It  is  this  opposing  precipice  which  creates  the  wonderful 
smoke  pillars.  If  the  space  in  front  of  the  Falls  were  open 
the  spray  would  fly  outwards  and  hang  over  the  river  as  at 
Niagara.  But  here  the  spray,  flying  outwards,  is  instantly 
dashed  against  the  opposing  clifl*  and  pulverised  into  steam 
which  is  shot  up  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  air.  It  is  an 
almost  miraculous  transformation.  In  seven  seconds  the 
water  plunges  down  into  a  hopeless  abyss  of  destruction,  in 
seven  seconds  more  it  is  floating  in  the  sky,  rainbow-crowned. 

The  view  down  into  the  chasm  from  either  end  is  inde- 
scribable. Perhaps  no  scene  in  the  world  better  deserves 
the  epithet  sublime.  Vast  masses  of  white  vapour  roll  and 
boil  upward,  while  the  river  thunders  and  plunges  down. 
Through  this  tossing  veil  of  spray  one  catches  dim  and 
fearful  glimpses  of  an  abyss  of  writhing  water,  green  and 
white,  lashing  about  frantically,  rolling  inward  and  heaping 


THE  VICTORIA  FALLS 


i6i 


up  towards  the  Iron  Gate.  The  most  exquisite  rainbows 
hang  above  the  chasm,  tingeing  the  steam  cloud  and  paint- 
ing the  dark  rocks.  Never  to  be  seen  twice  in  the  same 
position,  for  they  continually  change  with  the  movement 
of  the  sun  and  the  spectator's  standpoint.  Sometimes  a 
perfect  circle  appears,  the  under  arc  sweeping  down  glori- 
ously into  the  heart  of  the  abyss,  and  gilding  its  agony  with 
a  heavenly  radiance. 

It  is  said  that  at  the  end  of  the  dry  season,  when  the 
river  is  at  its  lowest,  it  is  sometimes  possible  to  see  from 
end  to  end  of  the  chasm,  and  therefore  this  season  should 
be  chosen  for  a  visit.  For  my  part  I  had  no  wish  to  see 
through  to  the  end.  Rather  would  I  peer  into  an  impene- 
trable depth  and  feel  it  had  no  end.  The  sense  of  mystery 
and  infinitude  is  fed  as  much  by  what  is  hidden  as  by  what 
is  revealed. 

The  cliff  that  faces  the  Falls  is  unbroken  save  by  the 
narrow  outlet  through  which  the  river  escapes.  The  break 
occurs  about  a  fourth  of  the  distance  from  the  east  end  of 
the  chasm.  Between  it  and  the  east  end  the  cliff,  while 
perpendicular  on  the  side  next  the  Falls,  breaks  away  be- 
hind into  a  deep  ravine,  leaving  merely  a  wall  of  rock  so 
narrow  that  only  the  foolhardy  attempt  to  pass  along  the 
Knife  Edge  as  it  is  called.  The  .other  three-quarters  of  the 
cliff,  however,  is  broad  and  flat  on  top,  and  provides,  in 
fact,  Nature's  Grand  Stand,  from  which  the  various  cataracts 
can  be  viewed  in  detail.  Along  its  edge  runs  a  belt  of  trees 
to  which  the  name  of  the  Rain  Forest  is  aptly  given.  Here 
the  trees  glisten  with  perpetual  moisture,  and  round  their 
roots  maiden-hair  ferns  grow  luxuriously,  for  over  the  forest 
the  lofty  steam-clouds  rise,  and,  as  they  sway  in  the  air, 
shower  down  upon  it  now  a  fine  drizzle,  next  moment  a 
drenching  rain.  One  must  be  clad  in  the  stoutest  of  water- 
proof before  venturing  along  the  path  through  the  forest. 

Opposite  the  Main  Fall  the  top  of  the  rock  for  twenty 
yards  back  from  the  edge  is  washed  absolutely  bare.  A 
torrential  downpour  beats  upon  it  ceaselessly.  Here,  per- 
haps, is  the  one  spot  on  earth  where  it  has  rained  continu- 
ously for  ages,  and  the  contrast  is  very  striking,  with 

1 1 


I62 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


luxuriant  vegetation  and  tropical  sunshine  only  a  few  yards 
away.  Looking  across  this  barren  strip  of  black  glistening 
rock,  vast  clouds  of  steam  can  be  seen  shooting  upwards 
with  tremendous  velocity,  and  out  of  the  heart  of  the  cloud 
comes  the  solemn  thunder  of  the  Falls.  By  and  by,  if  one 
bides  one's  time  and  is  content  to  be  drenched,  there  will 
come  a  crowning  moment  when,  through  a  rift  in  the  cloud, 
there  flashes  out  a  dazzling  vision  of  the  sun  shining  on  the 
snow-white  falling  water.  It  vanishes  on  the  instant,  but 
the  impression  left  is  indelible.  The  spectator  feels  as  if 
Nature  had  unveiled  for  him,  in  a  moment  of  high  privilege, 
her  heavenliest  sight. 

Thus  it  is  possible  to  pass  along  the  front  of  the  Falls, 
pausing  at  each  new  view-point,  with  probably  a  rainbow 
advancing  in  front  or  following  behind,  till  the  extremity 
of  the  cliff  is  reached  at  Danger  Point,  the  western  pillar  of 
the  Iron  Gate.  Far  below  the  tortured  river  is  gushing 
out,  squeezed  into  less  than  a  fiftieth  of  its  former  width, 
the  most  tremendous  mill-race  in  the  world. 

Hardly  less  unique  than  the  Falls  is  the  gorge  down 
which  the  river  now  flows,  with  its  wild,  delirious  zigzag, 
its  400  feet  of  sheer  precipice  on  either  hand,  and  the  im- 
prisoned water  boiling  in  between.  Never  was  river  so 
battered,  twisted  and  torn.  A  hundred  yards  from  the 
opening  it  dashes  into  the  opposing  cliff,  is  flung  off  at  right- 
angles,  and  swirls  away  furiously  below  the  railway  bridge. 
For  half  a  mile  it  careers  down  the  gorge  as  straight  as  an 
arrow,  then  it  suddenly  turns  at  an  acute  angle  and  rushes 
back  till  it  is  opposite  the  bridge  again,  with  a  mere  wedge 
of  cliff  between.  Again  it  turns  as  sharply  as  before,  and 
thus  it  staggers  along  in  a  bewildered,  drunken  way  for  forty 
miles. 

In  the  visitors'  book  at  the  Falls  Hotel  some  traveller 
from  New  York  had  written,  the  week  before  my  visit, 

Seen  Victoria,  put  Niagara  to  auction  Another  Ameri- 
can, with  more  exuberant  rhetoric,  was  said  to  have  de- 
scribed Niagara  as  "  a  bead  of  perspiration  on  Nature's 
brow  after  she  had  made  Victoria Such  remarks,  of 
course,  are  not  to  be  taken  seriously.    They  are  in  a  tone 


THE  VICTORIA  FALLS 


of  characteristic  exaggeration,  with  perhaps  a  tinge  of 
annoyance  at  the  eclipse  of  America's  glory.  Few,  how- 
ever, who  have  seen  both  Falls  will  deny  that  the  Zambesi 
far  surpasses  its  American  rival.  For  those  who  are  im- 
pressed by  sheer  magnitude  it  may  be  noted  that  while 
Niagara  is  i68  feet  high,  the  Victoria  Falls  are  400  feet ; 
and  while  Niagara  is  1000  yards  broad,  the  Victoria  Falls 
are  nearly  2000.  But  the  difference  cannot  be  expressed 
in  mere  terms  of  magnitude.  The  Niagara  Falls,  grand  as 
they  are,  answer  pretty  closely  to  expectation  ;  the  Victoria 
Falls  exceed  and  confound  expectation.  Moreover,  owing 
to  the  unique  formation  of  the  rock,  they  can  be  examined 
more  minutely,  and  are  displayed  to  far  better  advantage 
than  Niagara. 

But,  in  truth,  one  is  in  no  mood  for  comparisons. 
Feelings  of  wonder  and  reverence  silence  criticism,  and 
a  visit  to  the  Falls  insensibly  becomes  an  act  of  devotion. 
One  receives  profound  impressions  of  infinite  mystery  and 
power,  mystery  of  fathomless  abyss  and  impenetrable 
cloud,  power  of  river  and  rock,  power  of  furious  titanic 
action  restrained  and  controlled  by  the  diviner  power  of 
absolute  repose.  Above,  below  and  around,  the  air  pulses 
with  the  resounding  thunder  of  the  Falls.  It  would  be 
quite  wrong  to  call  it  a  roar.  It  is  not  harsh  or  deafening, 
but  most  restful  and  musical — a  solemn,  all-pervading 
fullness  of  sound,  deep  organ  tones  that  make  not  the  air 
only,  but  the  solid  ground,  vibrate  rhythmically,  and  send  a 
soft  hush  far  off  into  the  distant  woods.  The  whole  place 
is  one  of  nature's  grandest  temples.  The  smoke-pillars 
rise  up  as  from  some  great  sacrificial  altar.  The 
rainbow  suspended  above  the  abyss  may  well  seem,  as  it 
seemed  to  Livingstone,  "  a  type  of  Him  who  sits  supreme, 
alone  unchangeable,  though  ruling  over  all  changing 
things,"  and,  one  may  venture  to  add,  a  type  of  Him 
''whose  tender  mercies  are  over  all  his  works,"  even  the 
most  awful  and  terrible. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIl. 


THE  BOYS  ON  THE  MINES. 

The  general  character  of  Rhodesia  is  that  of  an  immense 
undulating  plateau,  from  3000  to  5000  feet  in  height. 
South  of  the  Zambesi  the  bush  dwindles  to  mere  scrub, 
and  then  gives  place  to  the  open  veldt.  The  aspect  of  the 
country  is  bare  and  featureless  until  the  edge  of  the 
plateau  is  reached  to  the  east  of  Salisbury,  when  it  breaks 
away  and  descends  rapidly  through  the  most  fantastic  rock 
scenery  to  Portuguese  East  Africa. 

Over  all  this  dry  and  dusty  plain,  white  men  are 
scattered  in  search  of  gold  and  a  home.  Hither  also 
come  the  natives  from  the  north,  recruited  by  the  Labour 
Bureau,  and  lured  by  glowing  rumours  that  have  reached 
their  villages  and  glimpses  they  have  had  of  the  finery  that 
gold  can  buy.  Here  black  and  white  meet,  and  together 
constitute  the  problem  of  the  boys  on  the  mines. 
Strangely  enough,  in  our  other  colonies  and  in  America, 
the  word  boy  is  a  name  of  honour,  expressive  of  vigorous 
young  manhood,  and  the  boys  on  the  mines  and  in  the 
lumber-camps  of  the  West  are  the  pride  of  the  Empire 
and  the  Church's  first  care.  But  here,  on  the  contrary,  in 
presence  of  an  inferior  race,  the  name  boy  has  been 
degraded  and  become  a  name  of  servitude.  The  boys 
are  the  natives,  and  they  are  supposed  to  constitute  the  sole 
problem.  It  seems  to  be  forgotten  that  the  whites  also 
are  boys,  many  in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  and  they 
constitute  a  moral  problem  as  grave  and  momentous  as 
the  other,  and  one  that  ought  to  lie  nearer  to  the  Church's 
heart. 

As  soon  as  we  struck  the  railway  and  came  south,  it  was 

(164) 


THE  BOYS  ON  THE  MINES 


165 


easy  to  see  that  the  native  was  spoiled.  Loafing  about 
the  towns  and  railway  stations,  dressed  in  the  cast-off 
clothes  of  the  white  man,  he  appeared  a  most  unattractive 
creature.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  all  his  simplicity,  and 
acquired  the  fine  art  of  being  cheeky  and  intensely 
provoking.  When,  moreover,  one  saw  the  white-washed 
and  corrugated-iron  vulgarity  of  the  mine  compound,  and 
tried  to  conduct  a  Sunday  service  amid  the  roaring  din  of 
a  location,  then  one  thought  with  intense  longing  of  the 
primitive  villages  in  the  forest  and  the  friendly  dwellers 
there.  The  Doctor,  seated  by  the  camp-fire,  surrounded  by 
a  ring  of  devoted  carriers,  and  a  white  gaffer  cursing  a 
gang  of  native  labourers,  formed  two  scenes  which  hardly 
appeared  to  belong  to  the  same  world. 

Yes,  the  native  is  spoiled,  there  can  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  But  if  the  question  of  responsibility  is  raised,  it  is 
not  the  Gospel  but  civilisation  that  must  bear  the  blame. 
Spoiled  by  the  missionary  is  the  cry.  Alas,  it  is  but  too 
true.  Africa  is  overrun  by  missionaries — missionaries  of 
empire  and  of  industry,  missionaries  who  preach  a  gospel 
of  gold,  of  racial  pride,  of  fleshly  lust ;  and  these,  having 
laboured  in  their  blindness,  turn  and  curse  the  fruit  of 
their  own  handiwork.  One  would  not  dream  of  making 
the  charge  universal,  for  notable  experiences  to  the 
contrary  are  on  record.  "  I  have  natives  working  for 
me,"  writes  one  whose  witness  is  of  the  greatest  weight, 
natives  who  have  not  worked  elsewhere,  who  have  been 
in  my  service  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  years,  and  who 
are  to-day  as  respectful,  trustworthy,  and  altogether  de- 
pendable as  ever  they  were.  On  one  occasion  the  absence 
of  the  family  in  Europe  extended  to  two  and  a  half  years, 
and  all  the  household  possessions  left  open,  the  natives  in 
charge  accounted  for  everything  to  the  smallest  detail." 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  it  remains  true  that  the  native  is 
spoiled  by  contact  with  the  white  man,  and  the  white  man 
in  contact  with  the  native  shows  at  his  worst. 

We  travelled  east  from  Bulawayo  to  Salisbury  and 
Beira,  dropping  off  to  pay  flying  visits  to  the  mines  where 
Nyasaland  boys  were  known  to  be  most  numerous.  To 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


these  boys  the  sight  of  my  friend's  face  was  like  water 
to  thirsty  ground.  It  was  good  to  see  how  they  ran  to 
greet  him  on  our  arrival,  and  how  loth  they  were  to  let 
him  go.  The  aspect  and  conditions  of  life  are  much  the 
same  on  all  the  mines,  so  the  record  of  a  single  visit  may 
suffice. 

We  leave  the  train  at  a  wayside  station  and  book  rooms 
at  a  very  humble  wooden  hotel.  There  are  no  other  houses 
near,  but  the  buildings  of  the  mine  are  visible  about  a  mile 
away.  Our  rooms  are  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  as 
we  pass  the  kitchen  window  the  cook  rushes  out  in  great 
excitement. 

"  Hullo,  Tadeyu,"  MacAlpine  exclaims  in  astonishment. 
"  Where  in  the  world  have  you  come  from  ?  " 

Then  follows  an  animated  conversation  in  Chitonga. 
Tadeyu,  for  many  years  the  trusty  cook  at  Ekwendeni, 
explains  that  he  had  come  south  while  the  Stuarts  were  on 
furlough.  Now  that  he  is  informed  of  their  return  his 
instant  resolve  is  to  give  in  his  warning  and  get  home  to 
his  friends.  We  walk  towards  the  mine,  sinking  ankle 
deep  at  every  step  in  the  softest  of  dust.  Two  or  three 
native  stores  are  ranged  along  the  way,  each  with  a 
miscellaneous  selection  of  goods  calculated  to  suit  native 
taste.  Invariably  at  the  door  there  is  a  lofty  pile  of 
painted  tin  boxes,  such  as  the  mine  boys  buy  to  hold  their 
treasures.  The  first  proceeding  of  the  new-comer  is  to 
purchase  a  box,  of  which,  unless  the  price  is  paid  in  full, 
only  the  key  is  handed  to  him.  From  time  to  time  he 
makes  fresh  purchases  of  whatever  takes  his  fancy — articles 
of  clothing,  brown  boots,  a  melodion,  etc.  These  are 
deposited  in  the  box,  and  become  the  spoils  of  civilisation 
with  which  in  due  season  he  returns  to  his  village. 

The  compound  resembles  a  gigantic  stackyard.  It 
consists  of  a  dozen  rows  of  circular,  corrugated-iron  huts, 
with  twenty  to  thirty  huts  in  the  row.  The  whole  is  swept 
bare  and  clean,  and  has  all  the  monotonous  symmetry  of 
a  cattle  pen.  As  we  pass  through  among  the  huts,  we 
meet  two  or  three  Nyasaland  boys  who  show  us  the  office 
of  the  compound  manager,  to  whom  it  is  our  first  business 


THE  BOYS  ON  THE  MINES 


167 


to  report  ourselves.  He  happens  to  be  a  Scotsman,  a 
well-built  young  fellow,  who  is  quite  cordial,  but  evidently 
finds  some  difficulty  in  understanding  the  purpose  of  our 
visit.  He  shows  us  round  his  stores,  and  laughs  over  the 
difficulty  of  feeding  his  big  family.  Then  he  takes  us  to  a 
little  hospital  for  the  mine  workers,  where  most  of  the  beds 
are  full,  principally  with  phthisis  cases.  Here  is  a  Bandawe 
boy,  who  would  give  all  the  gold  in  Rhodesia  for  one 
glimpse  of  the  blue  lake  he  will  never  see  again.  His 
eye  glistens  at  the  sight  of  his  old  friend  and  teacher,  and 
words  of  Christian  comfort  pass  between  the  two  in  the 
soft  speech  of  the  Tonga. 

A  church  of  very  humble  proportions  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  compound.  There  is,  of  course,  no  settled 
minister,  but  night  after  night  the  Christian  natives  meet 
for  prayer  and  Bible  reading.  Here  too  they  conduct  a 
night  school.  A  meeting  is  hastily  arranged  for  the 
evening  when  the  boys  come  off  their  shift.  The  little 
meeting-house  is  packed  at  the  appointed  hour.  Mac- 
Alpine  presides  and  introduces  the  Deputy,  who  briefly 
conveys  to  these  exiles  the  greetings  of  the  mother  Church, 
and  then  makes  way  for  his  more  capable  and  experienced 
friend.  The  man  from  the  lake  pours  on  out  of  a  full 
heart,  till  one  wonders  whether  he  will  emulate  the  Apostle 
who  continued  his  speech  until  midnight,  and  whether,  if  he 
does,  there  will  be  a  Eutychus  among  those  eager  listeners. 
At  last  he  finishes,  and  numbers  of  the  audience  crowd 
round  him  to  press  his  hand  and  to  get  and  give  all  the 
news.  Being  obviously  out  of  it,  I  stroll  through  the 
compound  where  the  dull  rumble  of  drums  has  been 
proclaiming  some  festivity.  On  reaching  the  spot,  groups 
of  men  and  women  can  be  seen  in  the  bright  starlight 
gathered  round  an  open  space  among  the  huts.  Suddenly 
I  receive  a  heavy  blow  upon  the  shoulder,  and  a  figure  like 
a  draped  horse  goes  spinning  past.  It  runs  on  silently, 
pirouettes,  and  runs  on  again.  It  charges  first  one  group 
and  then  another,  wheeling  and  running  nimbly,  but 
though  there  is  laughter  and  shrieks  from  the  women, 
nobody  seems  greatly  frightened.    I  wait  to  see  if  the 


i68  STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 

mysterious  creature  will  come  my  way  again,  but  it  does 
not,  and  I  conclude  that  our  collision  has  been  accidental. 

Returning  to  the  hotel  we  found  our  company  at  dinner 
to  consist  of  a  gentleman  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  who  was 
entitled  doubtless  to  be  called  a  white  man  by  virtue  of 
his  birth,  but  whose  hands  and  face  did  little  to  support 
that  claim.  With  him  we  had  an  amusing  encounter,  and 
one  has  a  vivid  recollection  of  him  as  the  critic  of  the 
unwashed  hands.  Evidently  he  detected  the  cloven  hoof 
of  the  missionary,  for  he  opened  fire  at  once. 

*'  Every  native  is  a  liar  and  a  thief,"  he  asserted,  with 
fierce  dogmatism. 

At  that  moment  Tadeyu  came  in  from  the  kitchen  and 
glanced  brightly  in  our  direction.  My  friend  turned  to  the 
critic. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  with  quiet  reasonableness,  what  do 
you  know  about  the  boy  who  cooked  this  dinner  for  us  ?  " 

I  know  he  is  a  liar  and  a  thief,"  came  the  sneering 
answer. 

MacAlpine's  eyes  flashed  at  this  insult  to  his  friend,  but 
I  interposed  to  suggest  that  a  man  who  talked  like  that 
was  not  to  be  argued  with,  but  only  to  be  laughed  at. 
We  proceeded  with  our  dinner  while  the  critic  continued 
his  harangue.  Not  a  single  good  quality  had  the  native 
in  his  original  state,  and  now,  in  addition,  eveiy  possible 
evil  quality  had  been  grafted  on  to  him  by  the  missionary. 
The  climax  of  enormity  was  reached  when  the  missionary 
taught  the  natives  to  play  tennis,  and  took  the  hard-earned 
money  of  poor  working  people  at  home  to  provide  them 
with  tennis-rackets.  This  astonishing  statement  we 
greeted  with  laughter  so  long  and  hearty  that  the  critic 
fell  silent,  and  we  finished  our  meal  in  peace. 

It  would,  of  course,  be  unfair  to  regard  our  critic  of  the 
unwashed  hands  as  representative,  yet  one  met  everywhere 
ominous  signs  of  the  same  dense  ignorance  and  invincible 
prejudice.  At  times,  too,  one  heard  the  same  passionate 
abuse.  The  colonial  mind  is  enmity  against  Missions. 
The  subject  is  regarded  as  one  not  to  be  calmly  considered, 
but  to  be  dismissed  with  contempt.    The  colonial  is  a 


THE  BOYS  ON  THE  MINES 


splendidly  fine  fellow,  but  if  there  is  one  subject  about 
which  he  is  in  abysmal  ignorance  it  is  Missions.  It  may 
be  said  with  perfect  confidence  that  not  one  in  a  thousand  of 
colonials  has  ever  examined  the  operations  of  even  a  single 
Mission  station.  Missionaries  have  their  weaknesses  and 
Mission  methods  their  faults,  but  the  colonial  has  not 
discovered  them.  His  attack  is  delivered  in  the  dark. 
He  fires  wildly  without  stopping  to  get  the  range,  and  so, 
when  he  is  firmly  met,  he  is  never  able  to  push  the  attack 
home.  His  attitude  to  Missions  is,  in  fact,  simply  a  phobia 
which  seizes  the  raw  tenderfoot  on  his  first  entrance  to 
the  country,  and  diminishes  in  violence  with  age  and 
experience. 

There  were  times  when  the  irreligion  of  the  whites 
struck  the  mind  more  painfully  than  the  heathenism  of  the 
blacks.  One  has  seen  amid  the  gross  surroundings  of  the 
compound  a  little  school  where  natives,  ^fter  their  day's 
work,  were  laboriously  learning  and  teaching  one  another 
to  read.  One  has  stood  also  beside  a  pretty  church 
overlooking  a  valley  in  which  200  whites  have  their  home, 
but  where  the  preacher,  when  he  comes  for  a  monthly 
service,  has  sometimes  looked  in  vain  for  a  single  fellow- 
worshipper. 

What  shape  will  the  future  take  out  there  where  the 
boys,  black  and  white,  mingle  together  on  the  mines  ?  It 
is  a  dubious  question.  It  may  be  the  Church  will  awake  to 
her  full  responsibility,  and  seek  with  shepherd's  care  her 
far-scattered  and  neglected  sons.  It  may  be  that  the  slow 
discipline  of  the  years  will  in  time  effect  a  cure.  For  life 
in  a  young  colony,  full  as  it  is  of  zest  and  vigour,  is  in 
reality  unnatural  and  morally  unhealthy,  inasmuch  as  it 
lacks  the  due  proportions  of  the  home,  the  frailty  of  age, 
and  the  innocence  of  childhood  to  soften  the  passions  of 
the  strong.  But  how  ardently  did  one  wish  that  all  that 
splendid  strength  and  daring  which  has  responded  to  the 
dream  of  Empire  were  consecrated  to  a  diviner  vision  and 
poured  out  with  the  same  lavishness  for  the  Redeemer's 
kingdom. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR. 

We  sailed  from  Beira  on  the  fateful  ist  of  August,  hoping 
to  come  home  by  Egypt  and  Italy.  Travelling  down 
country  we  had  heard  vague  rumours  of  trouble  in  Europe, 
but  had  not  taken  them  seriously,  and  now  we  sailed 
without  misgiving.  Next  day  we  lay  off  Chinde,  and  the 
German  tug  came  out  as  usual.  Another  day's  sail  up  the 
coast,  and  we  saw  the  morning  sun  shining  on  the  old 
grey  castle  of  Mozambique.  Only  when  we  sailed 
hurriedly  out  of  Port  Amelia  that  night  with  all  lights  out 
did  we  begin  to  suspect  the  truth.  Fetching  a  wide  sweep 
to  the  east  to  avoid  Dar-es-Salaam  and  the  German 
coast,  we  came  into  Zanzibar  round  the  north  end  of  the 
island. 

News  of  the  declaration  of  war  came  to  us  somewhat 
dramatically.  We  had  gone  ashore  and  hired  an  Arab 
guide  to  take  us  through  the  maze  of  the  town.  Passing 
through  one  of  the  streets  he  paused  and  said,  "  Germain's 
consul's  house".  In  the  interest  of  viewing  the  palm- 
fringed  roadstead  and  the  Sultan's  palace,  we  had  forgotten 
Germany  for  the  moment,  but  the  guide's  words  recalled 
our  minds.    Ah,  what  about  war? 

"  Yees,  war,"  said  the  guide  eagerly,  and  led  us  to  the 
corner  where  we  could  see  the  Union  Jack  flying  over  the 
consulate.  "  Germain  flag  down,  Breetish  flag  up,  zees 
morning."    We  took  it  for  a  word  of  good  omen. 

Zanzibar  must  be  the  most  chaotic  city  in  the  world. 
The  worthy  Scots  bailie  who  insisted  that  every  house 
must  be  paralysed  wi'  the  road,"  would  find  here  much  to 
grieve  his  honest  soul.    The  building  of  the  city  was  on 

(170) 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR  171 


this  wise.  The  first  builder,  being  demented  or  drunk, 
threw  down  a  building  anyhow ;  the  second  threw  down 
another  in  utter  contempt  of  the  first,  and  the  rest  followed 
each  at  his  own  angle  and  in  his  own  style.  At  last  came 
a  builder  who  thought  to  make  an  end  of  the  lunatic 
performance  by  blocking  the  end  of  the  street.  Not  quite 
succeeding  in  his  attempt,  he  left  a  narrow  exit  through 
which  one  squeezes  to  find  another  mad  rout  of  architecture 
round  the  corner.  The  whole  is  a  "  maze  of  corridors 
contrived  for  sin,"  where  the  cruel  East  fastened  on  Africa 
and  sucked  her  life's  blood  in  the  old  slave  days. 

We  visited  the  Universities'  Mission  and  stood  in  the 
cathedral  church,  the  chancel  end  of  which  is  built  on  the 
site  of  the  old  slave  market.  Near  the  church  is  the 
Mission  hospital,  beautiful  with  palms  and  tropical  plants, 
but  breathless  as  a  hothouse.  The  doctor  showed  us  one 
ward  empty,  and  dressings  laid  ready  on  the  surgery  table. 

"It  is  well  to  be  prepared,"  he  said.  "We  might  get 
in  a  batch  of  wounded  at  any  moment." 

One  remembered  his  words  and  blessed  his  forethought 
when,  shortly  afterwards,  the  Pegasus  was  pounded  to 
pieces  in  Zanzibar  harbour,  and  her  helpless  crew  decimated. 

Returning  on  board  we  found  a  scene  of  agitation  and 
confusion.  The  Indians  who  had  joined  us  to  go  up  the 
coast  were  ordered  ashore  ;  the  Mombasa  passengers,  of 
whom  there  were  fifty  or  sixty,  were  informed  more  vaguely 
that  they  were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  ship.  The  Indians, 
with  characteristic  meekness  obeyed  ;  the  British,  also  true 
to  national  character,  stormed  and  protested.  They 
interviewed  the  captain,  and  demanded  to  know  his 
intentions,  but  they  might  as  well  have  interviewed  the 
Sphinx.  They  held  an  indignation  meeting  and  appointed 
a  committee,  to  deal,  presumably,  with  the  World  War 
as  it  affected  them !  Amateur  sea  lawyers  expounded  the 
situation.  "  They  are  bound  to  take  us  to  our  destination. 
They  can't  allow  me  to  starve.  I'm  a  British  subject." 
British  subjects,  apparently,  had  never  been  known  to 
starve.    Finally  they  decided  to  stick  to  the  ship. 

We  sailed  out  of  the  harbour  at  dusk,  escorted  by  the 


172 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


Pegasus  and  the  Hyacinth,  which,  after  seeing  us  well  out 
on  the  ocean,  returned  to  their  post  of  duty.  All  night  we 
rushed  eastward  towards  India.  In  the  morning  the 
course  was  altered  and  we  headed  south.  The  deck  hands 
were  sent  up  to  paint  out  the  colours  of  the  ship,  beginning 
at  the  top  of  the  funnels.  By  day  we  raced  along  over  a 
wide  sea  vacant  of  shipping,  and  at  night  the  darkened 
liner  loomed  up  eerily  like  some  careering  monster  of  the 
deep.  We  had  taken  on  board  the  German  consul  of 
Zanzibar,  and  when  Sunday  came  round  and  the  purser 
was  reviewing  the  praise  list  chosen  for  the  service,  he 
gently  took  exception  to  the  choice  of  the  national  anthem 
as  the  closing  hymn.  The  captain,  he  said,  did  not 
absolutely  forbid  it,  but  the  singing  of  it  might  hurt  the 
consul's  feelings !  Such  was  British  ferocity  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  Ere  another  Sunday  came  round 
we  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  it  would  hurt  our 
feelings  more  not  to  sing  it.  So  it  was  sung.  After  that 
the  ship's  band  took  their  courage  in  both  hands  and 
played  it,  and  we  heard  no  more  of  the  German  consul's 
feelings. 

We  found  Durban  aflame  with  loyalty.  Almost  every 
building  in  the  city  was  flying  the  Union  Jack,  at  least  a 
third  of  them  upside  down.  So  unconscious  of  Empire 
were  we,  so  unused  to  any  parade  of  it  in  the  dreamy  old 
pre-war  days  that  we  hardly  knew  how  to  fly  our  own  flag. 
Colonial  troops  were  drilling  on  the  race-course,  and  above 
them  on  the  barracks  waved  a  big  Union  Jack,  also  upside 
down.  It  was  more  than  patriotism  could  stand.  Greatly 
daring,  we  approached  the  sentry,  and  with  profuse  apologies 
drew  his  attention  to  the  fact.  He  did  not  put  his  bayonet 
through  us,  but  listened  with  the  interest  of  novelty  while 
we  pointed  out  how  the  red  stripe  should  run. 

At  Durban  our  boat  became  the  mail  home  by  the  Cape, 
the  regular  boats  having  been  commandeered  to  carry 
troops.  Our  friends  the  passengers  to  Mombasa  were  put 
ashore,  this  time  without  option.  Their  confident  hopes  of 
boarding  in  a  first-class  hotel  at  the  company's  expense, 
till  they  could  resume  their  journey,  now  collapsed,  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR  173 


they  were  left  to  shift  for  themselves.  It  was  a  real 
hardship  and  loss  to  those  who  suffered  it,  yet  as  little  to 
be  regarded  in  war  time  as  a  broken  finger  in  a  railway 
disaster.  The  boat  filled  up  and  we  had  a  great  send-off. 
French  reservists  were  the  centre  of  interest.  Two  priests 
were  cheered  by  crowds  of  native  children  from  their 
Mission  school.  A  portly  Frenchman,  whose  girth  one 
reflected  afterwards  would  somewhat  incommode  him  in 
trench  warfare,  was  much  made  of  by  his  friends.  They 
presented  him  with  a  flag,  embraced,  kissed,  and  cheered 
him.  With  the  dramatic  instinct  of  a  Frenchman  he  rose 
to  the  occasion,  and  as  we  sailed  out  of  the  harbour  his 
friends  had  a  last  sight  of  him  standing  in  a  noble  pose 
upon  the  deck  with  the  tricolour  floating  over  him. 

At  Cape  Town  we  were  packed  to  the  last  cabin.  A 
motley  throng.  Stewards  and  musicians  from  the  com- 
mandeered liners,  now  rapidly  filling  up  with  troops  at 
the  quay ;  two  or  three  music-hall  companies  whose 
engagements  had  been  cancelled  ;  Belgians  going  home 
on  furlough  from  the  Congo,  all  unsuspecting  the  fate  of 
their  unhappy  country ;  Americans  and  other  foreigners 
turned  off  the  last  mail-boat  which  had  taken  only  British 
passengers.  Again  the  minor  miseries  of  the  war  were 
brought  to  view.  Two  very  tearful  little  schoolgirls  came 
on  board.  They  had  sailed  from  England  for  their  home 
in  the  Canary  Islands,  but  in  the  first  alarm  of  war  their 
boat  had  rushed  straight  on  to  the  Cape.  Now  they  were 
being  taken  back  to  England  and  to  school  with  never  a 
holiday  nor  glimpse  of  home.  In  the  big  world-sorrow 
they  had  their  tiny  share. 

The  voyage  from  the  Cape  was  uneventful,  as  the  sea 
by  this  time  was  fairly  clear  of  enemy  ships.  The  wireless 
tingled  steadily,  but  no  news  reached  the  passengers.  We 
had  no  serious  anticipations,  and  life  on  board  ship  was 
never  gayer.  Indeed  the  authority  of  the  captain  had  to  be 
exercised  to  keep  some  wild  spirits  within  the  bounds  of 
decency.  Yet  there  were  a  few  who  met  daily  to 
intercede.  One  remembers  gratefully  the  prayer  of  an 
American  mother  for  the  boys  at  the  front,     some  of 


174 


STREAMS  IN  THE  DESERT 


whom  may  be  falling  in  battle  even  as  we  speak  The 
words  fell  with  a  heavy  sound  on  our  ears.  The  thing 
seemed  hardly  possible,  yet  it  was  a  true  instinct,  for  these 
were  the  days  of  Belgium's  agony  and  the  retreat  from 
Mons. 

As  we  neared  England  the  truth  crashed  upon  us.  A 
wireless  message  was  posted  up  announcing  that  the 
Germans  were  on  the  Marne.  To  most  of  us  the  Marne 
was  then  but  a  name,  but  the  French  reservists  went 
frantic.  Horrible  visions  seized  them  of  Paris  besieged 
and  fallen  ere  ever  they  could  come  to  her  help.  They 
were  like  to  tear  themselves  in  their  impotence. 

At  last  the  six  weeks'  voyage  ended,  and  we  sailed  into 
Plymouth  Sound.  Not  without  emotions  of  new-born  love 
and  pride,  we  watched  the  swift  destroyers  cutting  through 
the  water  and  the  captive  German  vessels  lying  at  anchor. 
We  feasted  our  eyes  hungrily  on  the  green  hills  above  the 
town.  Never  had  our  native  land  appeared  so  dear. 
"  Old  England,"  I  seemed  to  discover  in  a  moment  all 
the  music  of  that  noble  name.  A  patriotic  Scot,  I  claimed 
it  as  mine  and  exulted  in  it.  How  foolish  seemed  the 
domestic  jealousy  of  Scots  and  English  !  Let  Ephraim  no 
more  envy  Judah,  and  Judah  cease  to  vex  Ephraim.  Is  it 
not  all  one  glorious  island  home? 

In  a  few  hours  we  were  travelling  swiftly  past  the  green 
lanes  of  Devonshire,  admiring  the  rich  verdure  of  well-tilled 
fields,  and  realising,  as  every  returning  traveller  does,  that 
there  is  no  country  like  the  dear  homeland. 

And  to  think,"  said  my  friend,  suddenly  waking  up 
from  the  long  dream  of  darkest  Africa,  "  that  in  all  these 
fields  and  woods  there  is  not  a  lion  nor  a  snake," 


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